


Fascination Street

by Violet_Jones



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Binge Drinking, Cliche, Co-workers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tropes, Voyeurism, brief Ian/OMC, brief Mickey/OMC, they always smoke weed in my fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: AU: Mickey develops an inclination toward his co-worker, Ian, and accidentally finds himself watching him closely from afar. Ian had never really thought about Mickey before, but after one fine day together, he undertakes the difficult task of trying to figure him out.Excerpt:Mickey Milkovich was not stalking Ian Gallagher. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t some obsessed, pathetic creep just a few lost marbles away from attempted murder or anything. He wasn’t peeping into the guy’s windows at night, or stealing his sweaters out of his work locker to sniff when he got lonely. He was just maybe following him a little bit.





	1. Strange Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked to step in and help out after someone dropped out of the Gift Exchange, so I resurrected an idea I had saved from exactly a year ago with 1.4k written. I wanted it to be around 12k total, so naturally it's gonna be double that, because I'm me. 
> 
> The prompt request was: Rom-com AU (It's not based on any movie, but I tried to throw in enough tropes and humor to make it hopefully resemble something like a rom-com). 
> 
> Included from the request: Needy power-bottom!Mickey, smut, jealous!ian, slow build, clichés, hate to lovers.
> 
> All titles are songs by The Cure.
> 
>   
>  [](https://imgur.com/NtYW0T4)   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> 

Mickey Milkovich was not stalking Ian Gallagher. It wasn't like that. He wasn't some obsessed, pathetic creep just a few lost marbles away from attempted murder or anything. He wasn't peeping into the guy’s windows at night, or stealing his sweaters out of his work locker to sniff when he got lonely. He was just maybe following him a little bit. But really, it was only when Mickey was already going in the same direction anyway, so it was more accidental following than anything else. Okay, maybe he lingered too much when Ian was in the outside break area or the employee locker room, slightly outside of his radar so Ian wouldn't necessarily notice him there. It might be a little weird and not totally kosher, but it wasn't like _criminal_. Shit, it wasn't even close to being a fraction illegal compared to the things he'd already gotten up to in his 22 years. Mickey was just curious. It was utterly and completely harmless.

It started by accident, as previously stated. Mickey's piece of shit trash heap rust bucket of an old-as-fuck car had broken down, and he still hadn't decided if it was worth the money to repair. He had one of his dopehead brothers scouring for parts all over town to see if they could fix it themselves for cheap or not. The salvaging of the vehicle was completely contingent on that. So for now, Mickey was back taking the fucking L everywhere he couldn't walk. Public transportation made his days approximately two hours longer by default, which made him approximately four times grumpier than he had been for the glorious couple of years he'd managed to squeeze out of the '80s Oldsmobile he’d ‘bought’ off a dead great aunt. He was back to feeling like one of the lowliest cogs in the wheel of greater society in that additional way, to be piled on top of the others, such as his dead-end job, his dilapidated house, and his general lack of prospects in life going forward. Being carless was just one more soul-sucker to add to the list.

So there he’d been, a few days into his unceremonious demotion back to the L train, getting off work at a weird time between shifts. He was a line cook at an established mid-range restaurant in a good part of town, and he'd stayed late to help with prep, but left early because there ‘d been no need for all hands on deck during the modest Monday night dinner rush. When he’d gotten to the nearest station, he’d spotted his tall redheaded co-worker, a server, on the same platform. At first he’d assumed the idiot was on the wrong side of the tracks, and just hadn't realized he was waiting for the train going in the opposite direction to where he lived, but nonetheless he’d looked like he knew what he was doing. There’d been plenty of people gathered to wait between them, and Ian had been slightly ahead in the crowd, so he hadn't spotted Mickey as they boarded. Ian had sat in profile to where Mickey’d ended up standing, but he was looking down at his phone with his earphones in, so he hadn't seemed to catch the blatant attention he was paying him.

Mickey had tried hard not to stare, but his gaze kept getting naturally drawn back to the man. Okay, so maybe Mickey had come to acknowledge that Ian was hot a while back before that. It's not like that fact wasn't obvious. The dude was fit, and chiseled, and cute, and he had that rare hair color thing going on, plus his hands and feet were huge, which got Mickey thinking that if there was any good in the world, he would be packing heat in the pants region. Ian was attractive, and he would probably be a good lay. That was as far as Mickey's positive thoughts on the guy went.

Mickey had otherwise never seen anything worth getting fussed about. As far as he was concerned, Ian was just another North Side douchebag slumming it with a waiter job to make pocket money while Daddy sent him through college. There were plenty of servers and bartenders that fit that description in the area where Mickey worked, which was close to campus. The kitchen folk and the server folk were different breeds altogether. Mickey and his kind kept their minimum wage, no tip havin’ asses back in the actual war zone of the restaurant, and lived to shit on the front of house people. It was half the fun of coming into work on any given day.

Mickey had happened to be outside having a smoke on more than one occasion, and seen Ian getting out of some swanky Mercedes S-Class or BMW Model-M, with a graying man behind the wheel, and put two and two together. Sure, it was a little weird for an adult to be getting dropped off at work by their parent, but whatever. Kid was probably all of 19, tops, and maybe he already had a DUI under his belt and couldn't drive his own hot little sports car for a while. Point was, he obviously had money. He always looked nice and clean, and Mickey'd spied him up close one time in the locker room sporting an impressive watch that regular people flat out could not afford. He'd even made a snide comment to the flashy fool about watching where he left his things, because locks could be popped easily. Mickey didn't think flaunting pricey jewelry could possibly help squeeze good tips out of people, but what did he know? He made his same flat shit hourly wage, and that was that.

So seeing Ian casually at home taking the L did not compute. Then things only got more intriguing when Ian had risen as if to get off at the same stop Mickey was about to disembark at. Straight-up heart of Canaryville, and Mickey shook his head with a laugh as he noticed Ian hadn't even moved to take his headphones off or anything. He’d just kept strolling along obliviously. Reducing any of the five senses in Mickey’s neighborhood was not a particularly advisable idea. If you thought you could get by without hearing anyone coming, then hopefully the rest of your body and mind was on its total A game. He’d figured Ian was probably there looking to score drugs from some street corner or something. You'd think that rich kids had their own breed of dickbag suppliers, but Mickey didn't know what else could possibly bring him there right at dusk, obviously having just gotten off work.

That's how he'd ended up following Ian through actual complete blocks of the city. Luckily, Ian had never turned around and caught him, because that would have been fucking awkward. Mickey's turn-off toward his own house was coming up in a couple of streets anyway, and he'd decided he’d wait until then to see if he was really going to let his need for answers get the best of him, or just say fuck it and hang a left like he should. But then something unexpected happened. A little black kid had come running out a gate and up the street toward the pale ginger up ahead.

"Ian!" the kid had cried jubilantly.

Ian had finally pulled out the earphones. "Liam! Buddy!"

Mickey had paused for a moment, and watched as the kid hugged the man's long legs, while Ian had taken his backpack off his shoulder, and pulled out a plastic bag full of containers.

"I brought food! You hungry?"

"Yeah! Pasta!"

"That's right. We're fancy tonight."

Ian had swooped down and pulled Liam up into his arms, raising him effortlessly to his left hip, while the plastic bag of food and the backpack hung from his right arm, and they’d made their way through the gate and up the stairs of a shitty old house. Mickey had felt his mouth drop open a little as it all clicked into place. _'The Gallaghers. Ian fucking Gallagher.'_ He was one of them. And Mickey’d felt like a total tool. Mandy had talked about dating the Gallagher boys at school back in the day. One of them was gay, he was pretty sure. She'd rattled off a list of people she knew to be queer once Mickey had finally gotten the balls to come out to her, like it was supposed to mean something to him. Maybe she'd been talking about Ian.

Mickey had groaned. _'Fuck. That's all I need right now.'_

Soon enough, he’d snapped himself out of his stupor and kept walking. What did it matter that Ian was South Side? Didn't change anything. Mickey had never even had an actual conversation with the guy before. The most he'd ever done was toss some sarcastic insults his way. They weren't suddenly going to become pals just because they happened to live in the same zip code. And who was the old guy with the luxury cars anyway? Maybe Mickey didn't even want to know.

_‘Fuck, I would make a shit detective.’_

His discovery of Ian’s true background that day triggered a kind of fascination that nagged at his mind during nearly every shift after it. Suddenly Mickey found himself hyper-aware of the server’s presence whenever their hours overlapped. He really didn’t want to be attracted, but he fucking was, and there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. Every time Ian had an order up, Mickey’s eyes seemed to hone in on his dumb red head at the window. Sometimes Ian’s gaze would find his, and Mickey would scowl and look away as quickly as he could.

The thing was that he felt like Ian didn’t even know that he existed, or rather, that when Ian saw him, he was merely looking right through him. Then again, Mickey wasn’t exactly throwing out signals that he wanted anything to do with the guy. He’d only vaguely acknowledged that Ian existed in the first place, and when he did it was usually to toss out some snide remark. But that’s just how he treated everyone. Yeah, his tone may have been more pointed with the front of house people and have a jokier, more affectionate edge when he was shit-talking his friends in the back (unless it was one of the idiots who were always fucking up their job and making more work for the rest of them, but there were only a couple of those and the kitchen manager usually scheduled them separate from Mickey to avoid any further knife-related threats of bodily harm that usually punctuated his epic ass-chewings whenever they really got under his skin), but still. It bothered Mickey to be acting like some dumbass infatuated bitch, even if it was only in his own head and no one else knew, especially when the person he was interested in looked at him like he was a useless piece of shit.

He tried to get the fuck over it, but the longer he went without his wheels, the more he seemed to see Ian everywhere. He’d usually find himself following Ian home a couple times a week. It was eerie that that kept happening. Like someone was fucking with him on purpose by having their schedules align like that. Of course, maybe it’d always been that way and he hadn’t noticed on account of his car being parked out back, and Ian leaving out the front. Whatever it was, it was annoying. He didn’t believe in 'fate' or any horseshit like that.

He was becoming more and more certain that Ian was the gay Gallagher Mandy had mentioned to him. He finally noticed that the dude with the Mercedes, and the dude with the BMW were not the same fucking person, for one. That was pretty weird. Mickey wasn’t a naif, he knew it was most likely one of those sugar daddy deals. The idea of all that should’ve soured Mickey on the guy once and for all, but it didn’t. No, he wouldn’t hesitate to serve a nice beatdown to any of the grandpas taking advantage of a teenager if he was lucky enough to catch them on the street, but it didn’t temper his desire to know Ian.

Mickey’s outlook on his chances with Ian only went downhill from there. Aside from the fact that he just straight-up wasn’t doing anything at all to actually try to spark any kind of relationship with the guy, the evidence just kept mounting that Ian was in fact gay, but would also never look twice at someone like him. Turned out it wasn’t even that he was strictly into wrinkly dicks, it appeared to be more of a money thing.

Mickey found himself out back, smoking and drinking an after-shift beer before heading home for the night, when he noticed Ian and another server named Eddie coming out of the restaurant, laughing about something. He pretended not to be interested, and messed around on his phone, but he could hear their voices carrying.

“Let’s just go to Eden. It's like three blocks from here,” said Ian. “We don’t even have to take your car.”

“Thought you loved my car,” Eddie boasted.

Mickey fought not to roll his eyes or sneer in disgust. Eddie was definitely one of those trust fund babies that he had assumed Ian was before he’d found him out. A lot of the staff talked shit about him openly, and he drove an Audi convertible in a ridiculous shade of bright blue. He was alright looking, brown hair, brown eyes, always fussily styled, with just the right amount of stubble on his face like he’d airbrushed it on. He was annoying as fuck, though, and definitely not someone the kitchen folk cared to interact with.

Ian snorted. “ _You_ love your car. I’ve seen better.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your whore-ass has,” said Eddie.

Mickey almost looked up to see how Ian reacted to that, but he kept his head resolutely down.

Ian only snickered. “Fuck you, you’re just jealous.”

“Come onnnn,” Eddie whined. “Let’s do Boystown. Pleeeeaaase?”

“I said no. I don’t wanna go down that wormhole tonight. I got shit to do in the morning. Let's go to Eden for a couple hours, then I’m out. You can do whatever you want after that, lush.”

Mickey could hear Ian continue muttering something under his breath, presumably so that no one would overhear, and that definitely piqued his curiosity, so he slyly side-eyed the two. Ian was leaning kind of close, smirking somewhat flirtatiously, and apparently whatever he said was working, because Eddie looked like he was eating it right on up.

Mickey averted his eyes, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, like his hackles were rising, and maybe he felt that fluttery, queasy feeling in his stomach. He quickly chugged the rest of the beer and slammed the empty glass down on the wooden picnic table, ready to get the fuck out of there. Of course he ended up following the guys, because of course the fucking club they were going to was in the same direction as the nearest L station.

He skulked beside the building for a minute to try and put some extra distance between them, but then he chided himself for feeling like he was doing something wrong. He was tired and he was now crabby too. He just wanted to get the fuck home, and smoke some weed, and play some video games with his brother, drink another beer or three, and pass the fuck out. He was gonna walk like a normal person, at a normal pace, and he was not going to get distracted by Ian, or the fact that he had his arm casually slung over that asshole’s shoulders.

He wasn’t.

That is until he saw the two break off into an alleyway that definitely wasn’t en route to Eden. Mandy had dragged him there a couple times, egging him on to get laid, as if he couldn’t do that shit for himself. She didn’t get that just because he was private about his sex life, it didn’t mean that he didn’t have one. He just tended to be one of those in and out kinda guys. Hook-up apps made that shit pretty easy these days. Banging and leaving without any fuss had never been easier, so most of the time he didn’t even bother hitting up the gay bars. Wasn’t exactly his scene anyway.

Mickey tried his hardest to walk past that alleyway without looking down it, but he just didn’t have the willpower. He figured he knew what he was gonna see, and he knew he didn’t wanna see it, but maybe a part of him kinda did. It was like a fucking trainwreck.

He managed to stay in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, and could just make out the two figures halfway down. Ian was pressed up against the bricks, and Eddie was fumbling with his belt buckle as they kissed sloppily. Then he dropped to his knees abruptly and it was a shame that there were trashcans in the way, because between that and the low lighting, there was no way to check out the goods.

Mickey swallowed thickly, briefly wondering what Ian’s O face would look like, but then he sort of came back to his right mind and realized that he needed to get the fuck out of there. He was crossing over into the creepy territory he’d been trying to avoid. He slinked back to the proper sidewalk and made his way to the train, maybe a little dejected if he was being honest, but at least he knew for a fact that Ian was gay. He wasn’t sure how the fact that the guy appeared to have a revolving door of rich pricks at his beck and call could be in any way beneficial to him, though. If Ian was trying to fuck his way to the top, Mickey didn’t stand a chance.

He wanted to fucking kick himself for still being hung up on this guy. It was such an idiotic move. He should be completely turned off by all of this. If he’d been judging Ian’s character based on the fact that he thought he had money before, why shouldn’t he be equally disgusted that Ian was so desperate not to be where he was from that he was obsessed with dudes with money? He didn’t find gold-digging to be an attractive quality.

It had never crossed Mickey’s mind to try to rope in some sucker to bankroll him out of his shitty life. Not only did he have too much fucking pride and self-respect for that, there’s no way he’d ever feel okay about being taken care of like some child. He’d never even been well-cared for by his actual parents, so maybe it just didn’t occur to him as like a thing, but just the principle of it, though. That shit wasn’t him and never would be. It felt kinda like the pussy way out, and god knows he had zero interest in pussy of any kind.

Mickey did his best to put all the Ian bullshit out of his mind and squelch his stupid (he refused to call it a crush) _inclination_. He didn’t try to run into him, and when he did, he didn’t even make any sarcastic comments, even though he was now equipped with actual ammo based in reality. He skirted the guy’s presence almost entirely. No need in making himself feel bad for coveting some lame pretty boy that he could never have. He needed to play in the pond he was comfortable in.

He hit up some Grindr dudes a few times over the coming weeks. It was satisfying enough in its usual way, but maybe there was a small sense of something missing. Maybe it felt just a little bit emptier. Maybe his brain, or his dick, or his ass just couldn’t throw away its fixation on what it had started craving.

The restaurant he worked at, The Saffron Room, was owned and ran by some local liberal yuppies who ‘believed in maintaining ethical responsibility’ and other nonsense fancy words indicating that they didn’t practice total asshole business policies that fucked over their employees too badly. That didn’t mean that they made better money than what was legally required in the state of Illinois, but it did mean they got certain benefits that a lot of other service industry people didn't get. One of those was profit sharing. That meant that twice a year they’d have an ass-kissing, self-congratulatory meeting and dole out bonus checks to all the underlings. That Tuesday was the big bi-annual day, so every member of staff brought their asses into work at 9 AM to collect their $250 or whatever it’d end up being. It was usually somewhere in that range.

After an hour of bullshit, Mickey stood outside smoking with his kitchen buddies, keenly aware that Ian was just behind and to the left of him talking to his server friends.

“So, who the fuck is ready for some day drinkin’?” Mickey asked. Usually, a group of them would end up getting trashed post-meeting in celebration of their extra dollars.

“Can’t this time, man, gotta work in an hour,” his friend Danny replied.

He glanced around the circle.

“Same, dude,” Stan shrugged.

“I got plans with my girl, you know how it is,” Macy chimed in.

“I need this money for some unexpected bills, know what I’m sayin’?” Chiron added.

“Fuck,” said Mickey. “You can all kiss my ass, then.”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Milko?” Danny said, making obnoxious kissy noises at him.

Mickey threw up both middle fingers, sucking on the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as everyone laughed.

“Don’t fret, I’m sure you’ll find some miscreant to do shots with you at 11 AM,” Macy winked at him.

“Whatever.”

Mickey watched as they all slowly trickled away, and moved to lean against the wall, lighting another cigarette as he pondered what his next move might be. He was already up, he was off all day, and he had that money burning a hole in his pocket. He didn’t feel like going back home and bumming around like he usually did.

“Come on, Lauren bailed on me.” Mickey overheard. He could tell it was Ian’s voice. “I was planning on makin’ a day of it.”

“No can do. Family obligations.” Fucking Eddie again.

“Blow it off. You hate your dad anyway.”

“Can’t afford to piss him off, though, can I? See you tomorrow.”

Mickey didn’t want to keep staring at his feet, so he looked around, but just not in the direction he knew Ian was standing in. Except for a couple of managers farther away near the corner, everyone had abandoned the pavement they were congregated on, so it was only the two of them left really.

He heard Ian sigh deeply, and figured he’d walk away any second now.

“Hey,” he heard instead, and assumed Ian decided to get on his phone. Maybe he was calling up one of his old man dicks.

Mickey was about to say fuck it and just make his way to some dive bar alone, maybe go see a movie later or some shit, when he heard Ian again.

“Hey Mickey.” And suddenly Ian was standing right in front of him, lighting a cigarette.

“Uh. . . hey?” Mickey wasn’t good at hiding it when he was taken aback.

Ian snickered. “I heard your friends all ditching you,” he shrugged. “I got ditched too. Hate it when people flake out on me.”

“Okay?” Mickey knew he was probably looking at Ian like he was crazy for even daring to speak to him, but he didn’t know how else to act. It was like he was paralyzed with incredulity.

“So. . . I don’t know, I thought I'd ask if you want to go get a drink? We’re the only ones left standing around here.”

Mickey snorted. “Pretty sure you’ve never spoken directly to me before, and now you wanna hang out?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “The only time you’ve ever spoken to me was to dish out some choice criticisms or threats, so maybe I’m willing to put that behind us. We probly have more in common than you think.”

If he only fucking knew. Mickey’s eyebrow was arched high, and he bit his lip, tossing his cigarette butt down and stomping it out.

“Eh, if you suck, I’ll just ditch you too,” he tried to make it sound mean, but his smile betrayed him.

“Same to you, dickhead,” Ian laughed, then started walking away.

Mickey stared at his retreating back for a moment before reluctantly following.

They ended up at a bar a couple blocks away that was a little too hipstery for Mickey’s tastes, but whatever. They ordered beers at the bar, then Ian lead them to a table by the wall. The place was all but deserted at that time of day in the middle of the work week.

“It's not true that I’ve never spoken to you, by the way,” Ian said as soon as they sat down.

“Askin’ for shit for your orders don’t count,” replied Mickey, sipping past the head on his pint.

Ian shook his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows in silent question.

Ian sighed. “You really don’t remember me? From when we were kids?”

His forehead crinkled in confusion. “Should I?”

“I don’t know. Guess not. We went to the same school, dumbass. We were in different grades, but we were on the same baseball team for like a season. You pissed on first base? You also pushed me around a few times like a little asshole. When we were older, I was friends with Mandy for a bit. She dated my brother, Lip?”

“I guess I remember Mandy talkin’ about you. Didn’t really put it all together though.” He didn’t add the ‘until recently,’ because Ian didn’t need to know that he’d been thinking about him.

“Anyway, I know who you are outside of work,” Ian concluded.

“You think so, eh?”

Ian took a gulp of beer. “I mean, no, not really, but I guess I just mean I know who your family is.”

Mickey cringed at that. He knew exactly what that meant, and what Ian would assume it implied about him. “If you’re talkin’ about Terry, trust me, nobody hates that fucker more than I do. And my brothers have a combined I.Q. lower than Forrest fuckin’ Gump’s, so they don’t know any better than to just continue our dad’s shitty legacy.”

“But not you, though?”

“I mean, look, I ain’t a fuckin’ saint or anything. I’ve done a lotta stupid ass shit too. Been to juvie and all that, but I don’t want that shit forever. That’s why I work at a fuckin’ swanky douchebag restaurant far away from my house.”

Ian hummed. “I get it.”

“I know your family too,” Mickey finally admitted. “My dad’s definitely kicked your dad’s ass a few times. I think I may’ve joined in at least once.”

He tried to look mildly apologetic, but Ian just laughed.

“I’m sure Frank deserved it. Even if he didn’t, he definitely had it coming for something else.”

“So I guess you ain’t a fan of your old man, either, huh?”

“You could say that. I mean, you’ve seen him. Probly heard him ranting his alcoholic drug addict bullshit. He was never exactly father of the year to any of us.”

“Yeah, well, fuck ‘em. In our neighborhood, parents are just part of the shit you gotta overcome.”

He met Ian’s eyes, and the expression on his face was vaguely impressed, and he quirked a knowing smile.

“Yeah, I guess they are.”

Things became a little too quiet for comfort over the next couple minutes, and they both drank too much from their glasses. Mickey pretended to study the shit on the walls and behind the bar.

“So how come you’ve always been such a dick to me at work?” Ian finally asked, cutting right to an uncomfortable point that Mickey didn’t expect him to bring up, at least not so directly.

He tried to shrug it off. "I'm a dick to everybody, man. You know, I may be a bit Milkovich-lite now, but I’m still a fuckin’ Milkovich.”

“Okay, but you seemed particularly hateful to me, seeing as I never did anything to you to warrant it.”  


It was Mickey’s turn to heave a heavy sigh. “Alright, look. . . I may have not realized who you were until pretty recently. I thought you were one of them rich prick north-siders like your buddy, Eddie.”

Ian snorted loudly. “Why the hell did you think that?”

“ _Why?_ Let’s see. . . maybe cuz I’ve seen you gettin’ outta cars worth at least a hundred K, and seen you wearin’ a Bulgari watch, fancy-ass designer lookin’ threads just to wait tables, and them Chanel sunglasses hangin’ from your collar right now. What else was I s’posed to think?”

Ian averted his eyes, shifting around uncomfortably in his seat, and taking another swig of his pint.

Mickey felt a little bit bad for knowing way more than he was letting on, but he couldn’t bring himself to call the guy out when things were going surprisingly well. If they actually managed to become friends, maybe Ian would fill him in on it, and he wouldn’t have to feel like he was keeping secrets. Then again, there was no way in hell he’d ever be able to reveal that he’d seen him get the beginnings of a blowjob in a dark alleyway. He was gonna have to take that one to the grave.

“I, uh, just know some people,” Ian finally answered, as if that explained everything.

Mickey didn’t mean to put him on the spot, but still. “You _know some people_?”

“I’m not a thief or anything,” said Ian.

“Damn, dude. Tips at our humble establishment must be a lot fuckin’ better than I imagined. I should move to the front of the house.”

Ian shook his head, but he looked more amused than irritated. “Look, maybe if we actually get to know each other well enough I might be more inclined to be less cryptic, but let's wait and see, huh?”

Mickey bit back a grin. “Fair enough.”

“I’m kinda hungry as fuck,” said Ian. “You wanna go get some tacos? I’m craving this Mexican place. It’s not too far from here. They have half-price Margaritas in the afternoon.”

“Uh. . . sure. Why not?”

They chugged the remainder of their beers and left.

“Can’t believe I didn't know about this place,” Mickey said about an hour and a half later, having just eaten four tacos and a shitload of queso and guacamole.

They were just about to finish off their third shaker of margaritas, and things were still going fine. They were going _well_ , in fact. It had Mickey wondering if he should tip his hand, even, but he’d never learned how to flirt or whatever, and he was pretty sure Gallagher had no idea that he even swung his way. If he did, he wasn’t really acting interested in Mickey like that, so whatever.

“Yeah, it’s kind of under the radar. I don’t know why. Cheap and delicious. Seems like it would be more popular.”

“Should we get some shots?” asked Mickey.

“I don’t know. Might be too early for that. We need to pace ourselves if we’re gonna keep goin’.”

Mickey jerked his head up. “What?”

“Ya know, make a day of it or whatever,” said Ian.

“You wanna make a day of it?”

“Yeah. That’s what I had planned with Lauren before she flaked out on me. Why, you busy later?”

Mickey rubbed his lip with his thumb, rolling it over in his mind. “Not really, but–“

“But nothing,” Ian interrupted. “You’re turning out to be not too bad, so why not just go cash our checks and find some shit to get into?”

Mickey snorted. “What kinda shit do you wanna get into?”

“I don’t know. Fun shit.”

“Fun shit. And that requires blowin’ through over two hundo?”

“Eh, it’s the one paycheck I always keep for myself. I’m kind of a dick about it. My family doesn’t even know I get profit sharing.”

Mickey laughed. “That’s fucked up.”

“What, you plan on putting yours to responsible use?”

“Well, I _am_ tryin’ to fix up my piece of shit car. Fucker broke down on me and I been stuck takin' the L everywhere like an asshole.”

“Oh, come on, Mick!” Ian said with a bright smile. “Don’t be boring. Do something fun and spontaneous with me. You look like you don’t do that sorta thing much.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong about that one. Still. . . his fucking car, though.

“Don’t you wanna have an adventure?” Ian continued with a challenging look on his face.

Fuck, it made Mickey feel a little weak. This was his fucking chance. He’d been wanting this kinda chance for months now. He didn’t think he had the balls to pass it up.

“Alright, bitch, but we’re doin’ those shots first. If you’re gonna drag me around all over town doin’ stupid shit, I'm gonna need to get wasted.”

Ian smacked the table, a triumphant smile on his face. “Yes!”

Mickey rolled his eyes as their server conveniently approached their table. “Two rounds of tequila.”

“Salt and lime?” she asked.

“Fuck yeah.”

Ian was smirking at him when he looked over, and if Mickey were the type to blush, he probably would have. For some bizarre reason, he had a fleeting thought that maybe if he were the type to do dates, this might be kinda what it was like. He was probably getting himself into a terrible idea.

They did their shots, and Ian googled the nearest place they could cash their checks at the cheapest rate, and they made their way there on foot. Mickey was already getting slightly annoyed at having to take two strides for every one of Ian’s, because not only was the fucker tall, but he was fast too, and he was starting to act kinda giddy on account of all the tequila in his system, so he was almost doing double-time in his haste to find the next thrill. Mickey wasn’t exactly an ambler, either. He always made his way around with purpose, if not a bit of swagger. Ian was taking it to another level though, and it has his blood pumping faster with the effort.

“So what now, gingerbread?” Mickey said, lighting a smoke as they stepped back out into the light of day, pockets full of enough twenties to make a decent run on the city.

“You ever been to Pinz?” asked Ian.

“Fuck’s that?”

Ian snatched the cig out of his hand, and Mickey gave him a look, but didn’t protest. “Bowling alley. A little farther uptown.”

“Lemme guess,” said Mickey, snatching the cigarette back after Ian took a drag. “Another fuckin’ hipster paradise.”

Ian tipped his head way back, looking up at the sky in irritation. “Are you gonna question everything we do today? Or do you got any ideas of your own? I’m all ears.”

Mickey shrugged. “Hate to break it to ya, but complainin’ about stupid shit is one of my favorite pastimes.”

That pulled a small huff out of Ian, and he met his eye again. “You know how to bowl?”

“Pfft, fuck yeah, I know how to bowl. Used to be one of the only things my old man would drag us outta the house for back in the day. That rundown Brunswick dump over near the Alibi. Usually, he just made us sit there and watch him play with his buddies, but sometimes they’d let us play a couple games on an open lane.”

“Alright, then. Bowling it is.”

In the time it took them to take the train to the upscale alleys Ian had picked out, Mickey managed to school himself back into a neutral vibe, and by the time they went in, he had a characteristic scowl firmly in place.

Ian mocked him for being a ‘sourpuss,’ and paid for the first pitcher of beer. Mickey put on his dumbass two-toned shoes and crossed his arms, leaning back into his hard plastic chair while he waited for Ian to come back from the bar.

Turned out, not having bowled in approximately twelve years didn’t help him not suck. The only positive was that Ian sucked just as much, so he didn’t feel as bad as he would’ve otherwise. Still, he kept looking around at the other people on other lanes, feeling like they were all scoping them out and laughing their asses off, even if he never actually caught anyone doing so. He overcompensated for the social anxiety by slamming back the small plastic cupfuls of ale quicker and quicker as they were poured. Once he was swimmy enough in the head, it all seemed pretty hilarious and he stopped giving a shit about whatever impression he was making on the strangers around him about halfway through the second pitcher.

Ian was getting louder and louder, exuberantly crying out in victory at even the worst balls he threw, raising his arms up like he was an actual bowling champion. Mickey couldn’t help if the feeling was infectious. He kept laughing at the idiot’s antics, until he was almost literally falling out of his chair. He slid down dangerously at one point and spilled beer all over the floor.

Ian pointed and laughed, grabbing his stomach, and bending forward like it was the greatest thing he’d ever seen. Once he stopped, he fell into the seat in front of the scoring keyboard, and glanced surreptitiously over at the rental desk.

“I think we should probly get the fuck outta here after we finish this game, or someone’s probly gonna kick us out for getting too rowdy. We’re acting like Friday-nighters on a Tuesday afternoon.”

“Alright then, firecrotch. Looks like I’m gonna be three for three. You really, _really_ suck at this.”

Mickey almost ate his words by slipping on his way to the lane, but even though he caught himself in time not to actually face-plant, Ian still busted up at the momentary jig he had to do in order to avoid the fall. Mickey flipped him off, and proceeded to scrape up a spare.

“Woo! Suck it, fuckface!” he exclaimed.

He did in fact win all three games, and it turned out that Gallagher wasn’t the most graceful loser. Probably something to do with being a middle child, which Mickey knew all about.

“Gloating about scores that never even broke a hundred is totally bullshit,” he groused, putting on his sunglasses as they pushed their way outside.

“Maybe, but at least I got a ninety-somethin’ on the second game,” Mickey said, lighting up.

Ian took the cigarette right out of Mickey’s mouth and put it in his own. Mickey made a motion as if threatening to backhand him in retaliation, then reached back into his pocket and pulled out another to light for himself.

“Pure fucking luck, Milkovich. I’m gonna pencil you in for a rematch real soon, and we’ll see who ends up crying when I make a 120.”

Mickey guffawed. “In your fuckin’ dreams, tough guy.”

He felt pleasantly unburdened as they walked in silence, and Mickey found that he didn’t even care where they were going. He didn’t mind Ian leading him anymore. He was loose and light, and yeah, pretty inebriated. So be it.

And suddenly it struck him that what it was is that he hadn’t had this much fun in ages. Years, probably. His life was even sadder than he ever really stopped to think about. And he hadn’t even planned for it, it had just happened at random.

He wondered if spending time with Ian was always like this. Maybe this was why all those rich dickbags swarmed around him like flies. Yeah, he was hot, and maybe he was slutty too, at least for the right people, but there was definitely an attractive way about him. A certain casual charm and an up-for-anything vibe. Yeah, the mystery of Ian’s sway over him was solving itself in his head with each step he took by his side.

“Any idea where the fuck we’re goin’?” Mickey asked, pulling on his smoke. It was easier to keep up with Ian’s pace now that he was drunker.

The sun was starting to set and there was a decent enough breeze to make the walk more comfortable.

“We're close to Navy Pier,” said Ian casually.

Mickey stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gave him the stank face, because apparently he had to draw the line somewhere after all. “Fuck no! I ain’t goin’ to that crap-ass tourist trap. The hell do I look like to you?”

Ian cracked a wide smile again. “You really want me to answer that?”

Mickey flipped him off. "Real clever. No, you can keep your shitty comments to yourself, and I'm not gonna change my mind on this one.”

“Oh my fucking god, you’re so annoying. You’ve never been on the Centennial Wheel, huh?”

“What for?”

“For. . . it’s just cool. You get to see the city and the lake.”

“I’m seein’ the city right this fuckin’ second, and I can go walk by the lake whenever.”

Ian looked up at the sky again. Apparently Mickey really tested his patience and that was his go-to move for dealing with it.

“There’s about to be a sunset,” Ian continued. “It’ll be pretty!”

“And everyone knows that if there’s one thing I give a shit about, it’s lookin’ at pretty stuff.”

“Hey, you been lookin’ at me all day,” Ian said with an arch of his brow and a coy grin.

“Oh, Jesus, will you get fuckin’ bent?” Mickey started walking again, acting like he didn’t care if Ian followed or not. He could hear his stupid chuckles at his heels.

“Mick, come on. . . Miiiick! It’ll be way better than you think it will. I promise. Mick!”

“Holy fuck!” Mickey exclaimed, turning back abruptly, and Ian almost ran into him. He stopped all of an inch away, lowering his shades to highlight his put-upon glower, and Mickey had to look up into his dumb blue-green eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. “You’re like a small bratty child.”

“Then why are you looking up at me right now?” sassed Ian.

Mickey rolled his eyes and frowned deeper. “Case in motherfucking point. That was like an ‘I know you are, but what am I?’ level comeback.”

“Look, I know we’ve only really known each other for a handful of hours, but you must be able to see that I always get my way eventually. It’s just a thing. I don’t know how I got this power, or what I did to deserve it, but them’s the rules, so. . .” he shrugged in a very matter-of-fact way like he actually believed the bullshit spilling from his lips. “I mean, I just suggest that you give in now and make it easier on the both of us. Have I steered us wrong, yet?”

“Why do you care so much about some glorified ferris wheel, man? I don’t get it.”  


“So try it! You’ll either get it, or you won’t. No harm, no foul.”

Ian’s gaze was drawn to something across the street, and he grinned. "I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Gimme twenty bucks.”

“For what?”

“Come on, hurry up before this guy disappears.”

Mikey followed Ian’s eyeline. “Who the fuck is that?”

“You smoke weed?”

“‘Course.”

“Alright then, I'm gonna get us a fuckin’ eighth, and we’ll roll a blunt, and you’ll get on the goddamn wheel with me. I’ll even pay for your ticket if it'll shut you the hell up.”

“He’s walking away,” Ian said, already on the move. “We’ll figure out the money later, just go to that corner store and get some Swishers.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were sprawled out leaning back on a large shady tree in the park, Mickey watching Ian’s large, pale, freckled fingers rolling at least a third of the weed they’d just bought into a blunt.

“Sharp eyes, Gallagher.”

Ian tittered. “Oh, like you couldn’t spot a drug deal going down from a mile away.”

“The skills we pick up in the ghetto, eh?”

“Bet you picked up more interesting skills than that.”

“Pretty handy with a 9mm, a switchblade, a shiv, and of course, my fists.”

Ian laughed, lighting the end of the blunt and blowing on it to encourage the burn, then taking a long puff. “I’m pretty good with guns myself,” he stuttered out, holding the smoke in his lungs. “Especially a rifle.” He exhaled.

“Rifle?” Mickey sounded skeptical. Wasn't exactly a common weapon in their neighborhood. Shotguns, sure. They were loaded with multiple rounds, and looked intimidating as hell in a robbery.

“I was in ROTC in high school,” Ian explained, taking another drag and passing the blunt to him. “Thought I wanted to join the army after graduation, but I spent a summer doing a junior bootcamp, and realized it wasn’t actually my thing. Anyway, I’m a fucking good shot. Coulda been a sharpshooter, but I guess in the end I didn’t really wanna kill people.”

“Pussy,” teased Mickey, not really meaning it. He’d tried to work himself up to killing someone in the past, more than once actually, but in the end he’d never been able to go through with it. Putting someone in the hospital was one thing; putting them in a grave was another entirely.

By the time the blunt was short enough to burn their fingers, Mickey was feeling high as fuck, and went back to not caring what they were doing. He followed Ian through the park and waited with him so they could hop a trolley down to the pier, trying his best not to mad-dog the families and couples around them. Ian leaned over and put his designer shades on Mickey before he even had time to think about protesting. He looked over in silent question, and Ian gave him a sort of ‘behave’ type of glare. Mickey sucked his own lips into his mouth, and tried not to think about who had given the expensive accessory he was now donning to Ian to begin with.

They got on one of the enclosed gondolas of the Centennial Wheel about half an hour later. There was a hint of glow left from the sundown, but they’d missed the coolest part of it. Still, Mickey’d never been up in a high-rise near Lake Michigan before, so it actually was somewhat impressive, if a little nerve-wracking. He didn’t know if he really liked the sensation of being trapped inside some glass box spinning around at such great heights. At least there weren’t any kids in their car.

Still, the floaty sensation of a full body high, coupled with actually being suspended off of solid ground was interesting. Besides which, Ian's knee kept knocking into his, and his forearm was also brushing against him intermittently, and he was just _so aware_ of his presence, and the fact that he was there _with him_. It was such a strange day. Yesterday, Ian had practically been a stranger, and today he was a fast friend. Yesterday, Mickey’d felt like a pining fucking fool dead set on getting over his one-sided infatuation, and today he knew for certain that that wasn’t going to be an option anymore. Even if he could never bring himself to try anything with Ian, and even if Ian didn’t want him like that, Mickey had gotten a glimpse behind the door of Ian’s true nature, and he couldn’t just forget about it now.

“Well?” Ian asked him once they'd exited the ride.

“Eh,” shrugged Mickey.

“Eh? Really? It was a little better than 'eh.' Come on.”

“It was fine.”

“Fine?”

“What are you a parrot now? Yeah, it was fine. Sky, lake, city, whatever.”

Ian laughed. “You’re so fucking ridiculous.”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s go get on the super-swings.”

“The hell is a super-swing?”

"You know that like carrousel looking thing with the swings up high.”

“Shit, Gallagher, you tryin’ to kill me, or what?”

“Aw, you scared of a kiddie ride, Milkovich?” teased Ian.

“Suck my dick,” he retorted, grabbing his junk. “I just ain’t used to havin’ my damn feet up off the ground.”

“It’ll be fun, come on. Last carnival-themed activity, I promise.”

Mickey sighed, and followed him.

He was apprehensive as he strapped himself into the stupid swing, noting that Ian seemed hellbent on recreating some kind of ideal childhood outing, whether he realized it or not (drinking and drugging aside).

His stomach dropped a little as the swings were raised farther upward from the pier, and started slowly making their initial circle around. As they picked up speed, he glanced over at Ian, who was whooping in his seat like an idiot with a big dumb smile on his face, and Mickey couldn't help but grin. The wider they swung out, the more a small thrill flowed through him, and he put one hand outagainst the wind. It felt good, and his head felt a fresh wave of high as he spun around.

The ride was over all too soon, and he found himself wobbling a bit as he walked away. Ian pushed him around and laughed.

“You alright, Mick?”

“Yeah, man. That was actually pretty fun,” he admitted.

Ian gasped with feigned surprise, leaning in closer with one ear. “Say that again?”

Mickey pushed him away. “I said it was fuckin’ fun, you dick.”

Ian grinned. “Was that so fucking hard to admit?”

“I’m fuckin’ starvin’, let’s find some food,” he replied, dodging the question.

“‘Kay, I’m down,” Ian said as they walked. “Pizza?”

Mickey made a face. “Nah.”

“Burgers?”

“Uh-uh,” he shook his head.

“Hot dogs?”

“Yesssss.”

They ordered a pitcher of beer as they waited for their food, and Mickey was under the influence enough by then to bring up earlier topics of a more sensitive nature.

“So you finally gonna tell me about your rich grandpa fetish or what?”

It was hard to hold back his laughter when Ian literally spit his beer back into his cup.

“Um, what?” he asked, not looking Mickey in the eye.

“Really? You’re gonna act innocent now? I ain’t stupid, I can put two and two together. At first I thought I saw you with just one geezer in a fancy car, but then I realized it was at least two different ones. You got an interesting side business on the DL?”

Ian did look at him sharply then. “If you’re asking if I’m a fucking hooker, I’m not. I don’t take cash in exchange for sex.”

Mickey just raised his eyebrows and sipped his beer, waiting.

“Okay, fine. If I tell you this story, are you gonna run away?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. It’s really gay, for one.”

And there it was. Ian definitely still assumed he was straight, and he supposed that made sense in terms of who his father was, and the fact that Mickey made a lot of big overtures about banging all the easiest girls in the neighborhood when he was younger. If Ian used to hang out with Mandy, he probably heard about it through the grapevine. Hell, Lip knew him vaguely too, and he definitely would’ve talked shit about him to Ian.

“Why would I give a shit about that?” Mickey inquired.

“Right, well, anyway. . . I used to moonlight as a dancer at a couple clubs in Boystown.” He paused for a reaction, and Mickey schooled his features so as not to betray the half-naked images that flashed through his mind. “Didn’t last long, but I managed to save up a decent amount of money for school, and for my family, and. . . I met a lotta guys. Older guys with money like to be generous and doting with material things, cuz it’s the only way they know how to get laid. They wanna feel like they’re taking care of you, and that the whole relationship is tit for tat or whatever, and they tend to be married to women, so it’s probly a bit of an insurance policy too. Keep their boys happy, they don’t try to go blabbing to wifey. So yeah, I’ve been given some nice things. Didn’t grow up with much, and aside from the odd pair of cheap shoes, nothing I ever had was new. Can’t find fault with getting nice, new stuff, and getting pampered with four star hotel shit, like massages and room service. Gets me away from sleeping in my tiny corner of the bedroom I share with three other brothers every once in a while. And maybe I like to pretend sometimes. I get to live out my escapist fantasies, almost like I have a double life. It’s kinda exciting.”

Their hot dogs were dropped off then, and Ian thanked their server.

Mickey thought hearing the truth confirmed would turn his stomach and maybe put him off for good, but instead Ian’s spin on it actually made him understand. Maybe even fucking identify with the sentiment. If he were the type to attract pathetic sugar daddy types, in another fucking universe, maybe he’d let himself get swept up in the superficialities too. It’s not like he believed in feelings anyway. Not like he didn’t believe in casual sex. Not even like he didn’t believe in turning tricks if that’s what the fuck you wanted to do with your own body. It shouldn’t matter.

“Ain’t it kinda pervy, though, on account of them bein’ ancient as fuck? I mean, you’re a fuckin’ teenager.”

Ian chuckled. “I’m 20.”

“And you’ve been 20 since you started all that?”

Ian looked away again. “Not exactly.”

“There you fuckin’ go then. I mean, do whatever the fuck you want, but don’t get used by some borderline pedo geriatric viagroid losers just cuz you like nice gifts and soft beds.”

Ian gave him a kind of sweet smile. “You worried about me, Mick?”

He should be unnerved by how casual Ian already thought he could be with him, but every time he called him Mick it gave him a tiny flutter of pleasure that he’d never admit to.

“Nah, army, I ain’t worried about you. I recommend packing heat, though, just as a precautionary measure. Never know.”

Ian snickered. “Don’t need to. I’m good with my hands too.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Mickey gulped thickly. “Combat training." Ian clarified. “I know exactly where to jab you in the throat to drop you on the floor in an instant.”

“You wanna bet?”

“Why? You wanna go?”

Mickey eyed him up. He’d taken guys bigger than Ian before, cuz he had no qualms about fighting dirty, and his bones were made of sturdier stuff than most. Duking it out with Gallagher would probably be kind of fun, actually, but the problem was that he didn’t really feel inclined to hit him. He wanted to do something way different than that.

“Nah, I’m good right now. Too fucked up to scrap. I'd probly blow chunks everywhere.”

Ian laughed, licking mustard off his fingers one by one. Mickey tried not to stare at his mouth.

“So the night is still young,” Ian said, looking at his phone. “Not even 9 PM yet. I think we got at least one more adventure in us before tapping out.”

Mickey sighed loudly. “Man, you weren’t kiddin’ about blowin’ the whole fuckin’ check, were you?”

“Not really. It’s been a good day. We should go out with a bang.”

Mickey literally bit down on the tip of his tongue to keep from making an inappropriate comment.

Why was he so paralyzed with fear about letting on that he was interested in Ian? It’s like the guy had some kind of spell over him, and Mickey was incapable of not squelching every single opening Ian might’ve been trying to give him.

They hastily finished off their food and beers, and the good thing about being full to the point of bloating was that it slowed Ian down considerably. They ambled away from the crowded boardwalk and made there way farther down the concrete slabbed shoreline where it was a bit more peaceful. Not that that helped with Mickey’s wandering thoughts any. He had scatterbrain, and it was almost all Ian-related thoughts flitting around unchecked and barely understood. The redhead was rambling about something or other, but Mickey wasn’t really paying much attention, even though he did hum and snicker every once in a while.

Ian came to an abrupt stop, and Mickey pulled out a cigarette and plopped down harshly on a patch of grass near the walkway. Ian stared at him for a moment, then joined him.

By some miracle, he stayed mercifully silent as he smoked his own cigarette, and they stared out at the calm lake water like it was very interesting.

Mickey’d never really just sat with anyone in companionable silence like that before. . . all contemplative, drunk or not. The closest was maybe sitting around with his brothers watching TV, but in that case, there was all the noise and the thoughtlessness. If their dad was around, he would just ramble through whatever was on with unwanted commentary, and even Mandy preferred chattiness to quiet. There was never a lot of quiet in his life. Even when he escaped by himself, he’d be shooting off guns somewhere. The opposite of quiet. He was actually kind of surprised to find he wasn't completely incapable of it.

After what felt like too many minutes, but not enough either, Mickey noticed that Ian had started fidgeting. Maybe he wasn’t the only one unaccustomed to quietude. Then suddenly he jumped up, and kicked at Mickey’s foot to get his attention, as if he didn’t already have it.

“Come on, let’s keep walking,” he urged.

Mickey groaned, but complied by getting to his feet, somewhat unsteadily.

They strolled the lakeside a while longer before noticing they were approaching some docks. There was a burst of activity coming from a couple of double-decker boats, and suddenly Ian was crackling with energy again. He squinted and picked up his pace like he’d just set his mind on something.

“Fuck yeah, I know what we’re doing,” said Ian.

“What? What are we doin’?” Mickey yelled after him, but Ian was already jogging down to the dock, and all he could do was follow him at a more reasonable gait.

When Mickey caught up with him, he was talking animatedly with strangers, weaseling his way into their festivities apparently. Ian was definitely one of those guys. He could probably get away with anything.

Mickey stood around awkwardly in the background until Ian rejoined him.

“We’re in,” he told him conspiratorially, leaning in.

“We’re into what?”

“Party barge! We can hop on!”

“Don’t you think we’re drunk enough, Gallagher? You wanna trap us on a boat in the middle of a large body of water on a booze cruise? This is a recipe for death and destruction.”

Ian chortled. “Go big, or go home right? And we’re not about goin’ home today. We’re goin’ as big as we can. That’s the deal.”

“I never made that deal.”

“You did. Maybe you didn’t know it, but you did. It’s what I wanted all along.”

“Right, and his fuckin’ royal highness always gets what he wants, no question, no challenge,” said Mickey.

“That’s right. I told you so, didn’t I? Come on.”

Mickey was just intoxicated enough to not throw a fit when Ian pulled him by the arm onto the large, packed party boat, and steered him toward the back of the lower deck so they could watch the water as they motored away.

“Ever been on a boat before?” Ian asked.

“Couple times when I was younger,” Mickey replied. “My uncle liked to fish. Took us out on a shitty old motorboat with like the three wooden plank bench set up. Probly like twelve feet long, max. Why, you a big _seaman_?”

He couldn’t help himself.

Ian rolled his eyes, but snorted, grasping the railing and leaning back. “Not really. Been out on a yacht a few times.” He tilted his head up to the sky, and Mickey studied the moonlight reflecting off the long expanse of his pale neck. He’d never really been attracted to someone’s neck before. He was usually into the more obvious stuff.

“Lemme guess. Daddy’s treat?”

Ian cut him a look. “Watch it, Milkovich.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry. . . _Grandaddy’s_ treat. Silly me.”

Mickey couldn’t contain his smirk, and Ian couldn’t stop himself from laughing, shoving Mickey into the railing.

“Would you fuck off with that shit?” Ian implored.

Mickey shook his head. “No can do, Gallagher. You can’t just go around bangin’ mummified corpses and expect me not to mess with you about it. That material is too good to waste.”

“More like an easy target.”

“Oh, you’re definitely that too. Obviously,” kidded Mickey.

Ian pushed him into the railing again. “You’re a dick.”

“Hey, hey, watch it with the pushin’ me around on this rickety-ass boat while we’re speedin’ into the middle of this giant-ass lake, okay? You got enough witnesses to get you involuntary manslaughter.”

Ian cackled. “You are so weird.”

“How am I weird?” asked Mickey indignantly.

“Bringing up the precise kind of murder you think I’m gonna commit against you in casual conversation.”

“Why? You been premeditating this whole time? Is that what this day’s really been about? Cuz that’s straight-up murder one. You’ll go away for life, and then who’s gonna fuck the over-60 male population in this town?”

Ian roared with laughter, and instead of shoving him, drew him into a kind of headlock, resulting in horseplay that wasn’t really appropriate for supposedly grown men to be engaging in in a public setting. Mickey got a few good slaps in before they let go, proud of himself for refraining from throwing an elbow or a knee, which could’ve resulted in the start of an actual fight. They got quite a few pointed looks from people, and decided to settle down.

Ian of course thought that settling down meant finding more liquor, so they went in search of the bar on the upper deck. He ordered them some kinda vodka drinks. Mickey wasn’t really paying attention, because suddenly his ears were being assaulted by some chick warbling along to some 80s tune he recognized from one of Mandy’s Lady Power Pop compilations. He made a face, turning to Ian when he handed off one of the beverages.

“If you’d told me we were gonna be subjected to fuckin’ karaoke, I never woulda agreed to get on this shitty boat,” he groused.

Instead of answering, Ian just got in his face, belting out the chorus at him: _“We are young! Heartache to heartache, we stand! No promises, no demands! Love is a battlefield!”_

Mickey just stared at him unimpressed, sipping his bitter-tasting drink through a straw.

“Your voice is terrible,” he deadpanned once Ian was finished yelling the lyrics. “And what the fuck is this shitty-ass drink?”

Ian looked more mischievous than he had all day long. “Greyhound. And I have a challenge for you.”

“Go fuck yourself, I’ve had enough of you orderin’ me around today. Lucky I haven’t socked you in the face and walked away yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so fuckin’ scary. I’m quaking in my boots, etcetera. But I have just one more thing.”

“There’s always just one more somethin’ with you.”

“Take it as a dare, if you want.”

“Right, because I forgot we’re in the schoolyard and I could never live it down if I refused a _dare_.”

“How’s your singing voice?”

Mickey’s eyebrows reached for the sky. “The fuck? No! No, no, no. Absolutely fuckin’ not!”

“Come on, Mick! Bet you never sang in public before, have ya?”

“Hell no, and I don’t intend on startin’ today.”

“Why not? You scared? You don’t know any of these people and you’ll never see them again in your life! It’s the perfect opportunity to do something you’ve never done before.”

“I said. Fuck. Off.” Mickey flipped the bird just to emphasize the point.

"Mick. Mickey. Come on, please? Have some fucking balls!”

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher. My voice is shit. No way I’m gettin’ up there.”

“So what? That girl sounds pretty bad, and she’s doing it anyway, cuz it’s fun! You should make a fool of yourself for once in your life. It builds character.”

“Maybe for you it does. I’m good.”

“Look, I’ll go first. We can smoke another blunt, get a couple more drinks. You won't even care by then. But if I go up first, you have to promise to go up after. If you don’t. . . I’ll fuckin’. . . do something unpleasant to you.”

Mickey snorted. “Ohhh noooo, please mister, not something unpleasant!”

“Shut up! I’ll. . . punch you in the nose, and. . . throw your favorite shirt in the mud, and. . . I’ll start a vicious rumor about you at work.”

“Oh my god, you suck at threats. Like so bad.”

“You’re doin’ it. Come on. Let’s find a place to smoke this and not get caught by the captain.”

One blunt and three drinks later, they were hanging around the tipsy, rowdy crowd of partygoers, laughing and dancing poorly along to people’s karaoke. Suddenly, it was Ian’s turn, and Mickey’s nerves started kicking in just seeing him walk up to the small open floor space by the makeshift DJ booth where the microphone was.

They hadn’t told each other which songs they requested, only that they should pick out a 90s rock radio hit.

“You look like a 90s rock kinda dude,” Ian had said when they were debating how to narrow down song choices.

And then Ian was looking right at him as he started singing: _“Early in the mornin’, risin' to the street. Light me up that cigarette and I’ll strap shoes on my feet. Got to find a reason, a reason things went wrong. Got to find a reason why my money's all gone. I got a dalmatian, and I can still get high. I can play the guitar like a motherfucking riot.”_

Mickey was staring at him with his mouth open like a codfish, eyes wide. Ian looked stupid as fuck, but still, he couldn’t help but be impressed a little by his bravery and lack of giving a shit. And then he started the inevitable white boy rapping: _"Well, life’s too short, so love the one you got. Cuz you might get run over, or you might get shot. Never start no static, I just get it off my chest. Never had to battle with no bulletproof vest. Take a small example, take a ti-ti-ip from me-hee. Take out all your money, give it all to charity-y-y. . .”_

Mickey started off cringing, but ended up doubled over in laughter. It was so bad, but also kind of adorable. Ian was the world’s biggest doofus, apparently. But as Mickey looked around, he found the silly, youthful crowd was into it. Of course they were. They were a bunch of wasted fools. Everyone was bobbing and singing along to the chorus, all carefree and shit: _“Lo-o-vin’ is what I got, I said remember that. Lovi-in’ is what I got, I said remember that. . .”_

He watched Ian take a couple of ridiculous bows at the end of his song, basking in the drunken cheers of the audience.   
  
Mickey shook his head with mirth as he approached. “Man, that was horrible.” His face hurt from smiling.

“It was awesome,” countered Ian. “Your turn.”

His name was called, and he felt shitty butterflies in his stomach. . . moths. . . laying eggs or whatever the hell they did to procreate. Ian had to push him forward to get his leaden legs to move.

He gulped thickly and tried not to look at anyone’s face as he heard the twanging notes that opened the song he chose. And then he was singing: _“In my eyes, indisposed. In disguises no one knows. Hides the face, lies the snake. In the sun, in my disgrace.”_ He looked up from some random spot on the floor and met Ian’s encouraging gaze. _“Boiling heat, summer stench. 'Neath the black, the sky looks dead. Call my name through the cream, and I'll hear you scream again.”_ He still felt dumb, but it also felt a little liberating. And he noticed people were joining in for the chorus of his song too: _“Black hole sun, won't you come. And wash awaaay the raaain. Black hole sun, won't you come. Won't you co-o-ome.”_

Somehow he managed to make it through the whole song in a blur of odd tension and excitement, then he was back in front of Ian, allowing him to pull Mickey into a loose kind of hug for a few seconds, before pushing him away.

“Get the fuck off me, Gallagher.”

Ian was still beaming, though. “Mickey, that was awesome!”

“No it wasn’t,” he said. “It was shit, but I guess it was kinda cool, or whatever.”

People had clapped and whooped for him.

“I figured you were gonna do Alice In Chains, or maybe Metallica, but I shoulda guessed Soundgarden. Makes perfect sense.”

“Yeah, okay, Sublime. You cheesy fuck.”

Everything after that was a total random fog. They were back on shore, practically falling off the party barge, stumbling toward the nearest train station, chain-smoking, bumping into each other too much. They got off at the same stop Mickey accidentally followed Ian home from on occasion, and who knows what happened after that.

Mickey just. . . woke up.

His head was heavy, and hazy, and hurt like a motherfucker. His throat burned, and his mouth tasted vile. His whole body felt like it’d been used as one of those crash test dummies. His eyes were glued shut and crusty with twice the amount of normal sleep in them, and he was pretty sure he’d drooled down his chin.

There was another weird thing though. A body. Pressed up against his. A firm body kind of cradling his. A bigger one. Kind of. . . spooning him. His eyes snapped open, and he didn’t recognize any inch of the room around him whatsoever. It was tiny and there wasn’t even a real door on it. It was one of those shitty plastic accordion things like you'd see in some cheap old RV or something. There were clothes strewn haphazardly around the room. Dude’s clothes. And there was an arm around his middle. A strong arm.

He stiffened in alarm, and then his memory slammed back into his brain.

_Ian._

He’d been with Ian all day and all night. Of course he was with Ian. He must’ve fallen asleep at his place like some kinda dumbass. But he still had most of his clothes on. He was in his undershirt, and he definitely felt the elastic of his boxers cutting into his hips. His ass didn’t ache, so they probably hadn’t fucked. But that didn’t mean that nothing happened. Fuck. That would be the worst. If something had happened with the guy finally, and he never even remembered it. If his one night with Ian became one of those shitty drunken black holes. One of those forever voids in the timeline of his life.

He wondered if he should try to save face from whatever may have gone down and sneak out while he still could. Ian’s breathing was still steady behind him. He felt warm and comfortable, though, and that was scary as shit. Mickey wasn’t a fucking spooner. He avoided sleepovers precisely because of this kind of sappy bullshit. He didn’t need to be snuggled up to like some girl. He didn’t need some kind of reassurance that the sex, or whatever it was, had meant something. He wasn’t into men for the companionship.

But Ian did feel good. It was a ridiculous notion to come washing over someone like Mickey, but it was just. . .the truth. He had to piss like a racehorse, but he didn’t wanna move. He was afraid of bursting the bubble and never getting it back again.

And then he felt that tell-tale twitch against his ass. Really close to the cleft, in fact. Ian was popping a damn boner in his sleep. Holy shit. Morning wood was so unkind.

“Mmm,” Ian moaned softly in his ear, moving his hips just a little, gaining friction, which only made his obvious hard-on grow.

Goddammit, he was big. Of course he was big. Mickey’d fucking called that one like some kind of dick psychic. So naturally, big dick rubbing against his ass, plus soft little sleepy moans in his ear, plus strong masculine hold around him, equaled Mickey also getting hard. And motherfucker, this was a tough situation to call. Should he go with it? Pretend he too was still asleep, and start rutting back in kind until nature took its course and they finally banged it out? He wanted to give in and go with it. But he was awake, and maybe Ian didn’t know what he was doing. . . with who, at least. Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t want to. Maybe it was a mistake. A wet dream brought on by just having that other male presence in bed next to him. Maybe he was thinking of someone else. Ian had a lot of someone elses in his life.

He was still caught up in how to play this unexpected top of the morning scenario, when he suddenly felt Ian breathe out loudly against his neck, body going rigid, stopping its gentle rocking against Mickey’s clothed ass-cheeks.

Ian pulled away abruptly, retracting the arm that had held him as if it were on fire. “Fuck,” he heard him murmur.

Mickey turned to meet his eye before he could stop himself and just pretend to sleep through it like he maybe should have.

Ian looked somewhat panicked.

“Mickey, I’m so sorry. I was just. . . I didn’t mean to. . . I was asleep, and. . . you know. . . just. . . I didn’t know. . . I’m fuckin’ sorry, okay?”

“It’s fine,” Mickey managed hoarsely. His fucking throat felt like absolute raw shit.

“I really am, though. I’m not like some creepy molester. I wasn’t trying to like take advantage of you because you were asleep in my bed. I swear I started out sleeping over there on my side, and I guess I just. . . you know, when you sleep with someone else in the same bed, it just kind of comes naturally to me. I guess, I. . . you know, I know that this isn’t a good idea, or whatever.”

Ouch.

“Why?” Mickey asked, and he couldn’t believe he just said that. As soon as the word left his mouth, he wanted to bury himself beneath every pillow and sheet on the bed.

“Um, huh? I mean, what? Aren’t you straight?”

God, Mickey was so fucking stupid. Even after spending a whole day out with a guy he’d been lusting after like an asshole for way too long, he couldn’t even make enough of an impression to make him realize that he was even gay. He still came off like some jerk-off hetero, because that's what his mouth, and demeanor, and reputation always added up to. Apparently his subtle looks and remarks were too goddamn subtle. He had no chance. No chance at all. Ian wouldn’t see him the way he saw the dudes he went for. Maybe Ian just didn’t want to in the first place. He had that fuckin’ type, after all. That type that Mickey sure as hell wasn’t, and almost certainly would never be.

At least now he could be certain no one had sucked any dick last night.

He lifted the covers, and let himself out of the full-sized bed. He groped around the floor for his own pants, pulling them on while still sitting, then got up and grabbed his shirt which was flung across a folding chair in the corner.

“Mickey,” said Ian, voice raspy and a little downbeat.

“Just forget about it, Gallagher,” Mickey replied, grabbing his socks and shoes, but not waiting to put them on. “I already have.”

He didn’t even turn around to look at him again, afraid of what might happen if he did. He pulled the latch on the flimsy brown divider door and vacated the premises as quickly as his hungover feet could carry him.

  


  



	2. I Don't Know What's Going On

Ian Gallagher had never felt so utterly confused in his entire life. It wasn’t just that his brain was booze-broken either, though it did hurt to process heavy thoughts after the day and night he’d just had. It was that Mickey Milkovich, a guy he’d barely spared half a thought on in years, had wormed his way into his head out of nowhere, and he had no idea what that meant. In under 24 hours, Ian's view of Mickey had gone from ‘fuck that guy’ to ‘ _maybe I should_ fuck that guy.’

Ian groaned and threw the covers over his head in embarrassment, even though he was the only one in the room, and it was his own unspoken thoughts plaguing him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling heavily, then punched the blanket off so he could poke his head out again. He stared slack-jawed at the iPad screen sitting on the other side of the bed in a standing case, streaming the British baking show that Debbie somehow got him hooked on, even though he could care less about cooking. It was only something he ever did when he had to help out for the sake of his siblings. Whatever was happening onscreen barely registered though, as a film reel ran in his mind of all the details he could remember from yesterday.

He’d woken up stoked for his big bonus day, anticipating the fun he could get into with his friend, Lauren, another server from The Saffron Room who was kind of crazy and always up for anything. The pair of them had gotten into some epic experiences before, and he was hoping their combined magic would lead to another one. But with all slightly touched in the head extrovert friends, comes the flakiness gene, and he'd been ditched for some other plan she’d no doubt prioritized over him, but didn’t have the common decency to just inform him of ahead of time. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to let a bitchy friend ruin his plans for a good day. He figured one of his other friends would sub in for Lauren in a pinch, but as fate would have it, everyone he hung out with from work was busy with other shit. So he’d been forced to look elsewhere.

The kitchen staff didn’t seem to think much of him, and there was really only a couple of them he’d ever had a real conversation with, but as he’d looked around the sidewalk for back-up, wondering if he should maybe call up someone non-work-related, he’d spotted Mickey.

He’d had no idea if Mickey even remembered him from when they were younger. He’d always been openly hostile to Ian, and Ian wasn’t sure if it was residual from some perceived slight against Mickey or his sister back in the neighborhood, or if he just hated who Ian had become. He’d only known that the death glares and barbs about his appearance, or manner, or intelligence had grown old real quick, so Ian mostly tried to avoid being caught alone with him just so he wouldn't have to put up with it.

Still, Ian liked a challenge. Mickey might’ve told him to fuck right off if he asked to hang out, but if Ian could convince him, maybe they could bury the hatchet. Besides, he was sure Mickey would be fun to hang around if he could manage to throw the chip off his shoulder long enough. And the quickest remedy for a chip on the shoulder was most definitely alcohol.

Mickey had clearly looked skeptical when he first asked him to hang, but Ian had overheard him asking his friends to go drinking, and that they’d all turned him down. That alone was probably what convinced him to give Ian a shot in the first place. He was asking him to do something that he’d already wanted to do.

Ian had been right, though. Once they’d gotten some drinks in their systems and cleared the air a little, exposing their South Side roots, Mickey’s demeanor hadn’t gotten any less grumpy, but it had gotten a lot more entertaining. He’d started warming up to Ian as the hours went on, until it felt like they really were friends enjoying one another’s company.

Mickey’s admission that he’d made Ian out to be some rich kid asshole had surprised him, but given all the evidence he’d listed, and the fact that he’d forgotten Ian’s presence in the background of his childhood, it did make sense.

Ian hadn’t really realized how open and careless he was about his affairs until Mickey had laid all the clues out on the table for him like that. Of course his siblings had known something was up ever since he’d started disappearing, sometimes for days at a time, and coming back with expensive shit that at first he’d kept hidden, but later decided to let hang out. It wasn’t like it was easy to keep secrets living in his house, and in his old bedroom. He didn’t really open up a whole lot about the details of his private life much, but he never felt ashamed about it either. He didn’t mind talking about it with his friends, or Lip, even though Lip didn’t get it. But Fiona didn’t need to know, and his other siblings were too young.

What Ian had told Mickey about the reasons he dated older men, if it could be called dating, were true, but he hadn’t sought those men out to begin with. That's just the kind of attention he naturally drew to himself apparently. It had started with Kash when he was 15, but it seemed to continue. The thing was that the younger guys at the clubs tended to be openly gay, and the ones around his own age liked to fuck around, but not much else, and the ones about 10 years older weren’t into dating boys anymore, but fellow grown-ups with potential, and the ones about 20 years older were into actual mature relationships with men that had finally gotten all their shit together. But the ones that were 30 or 40 years older. . . those were the ones that had the most closet-related issues, that they would either one day overcome with true acceptance, orcontinue to live in until they died with the lie. Those were the ones who wanted to recapture the lost youth they’d wasted on hetero bullshit, usually by letting a youth fuck them in a style similar to their most vivid fantasies.

Maybe Ian should feel strange about taking shit from them, but he didn’t. Those kinds of guys always had plenty of money. They flashed it around up front as bait, and kept up a steady stream of impressiveness if they wanted to keep you around. Far be it from Ian to prevent a rich guy from spending on him, rather than some other frivolous thing, or some other piece of ass. Ian treated them nice, and they did the same in kind. He didn’t have time for dickheads. If anyone ever tried to get rough or demeaning with him, he’d make it a point to fuck them over, then never see them again. That usually meant cleaning out their wallet and donating it to his family’s squirrel fund. Like poor people without bank accounts, old dudes liked carrying around big wads of cash, even though they didn’t have to. Probably on account of the possibility of getting up to nefarious things at any given time.

Ian would still get his rocks off with random age-appropriate guys too. He was in his prime and saw no reason to waste it. But so far, love had eluded him. Once upon a time when he was naive as fuck and didn’t know any better, he'd thought he’d been in love with Kash, but time and reason, not to mention increasingly shitty actions on Kash’s part, made Ian see just how stupid that belief was. He’d never known paternal love, had only known a fleeting kind of chaotic version of maternal love, and in the last 5 years of his short life, the only hint of romance he’d known stemmed from the desire he could evoke from men who wanted his body. No one really cared about his thoughts or feelings, and he supposed he didn’t really want them to anyway. He'd planted himself firmly at the center of a vicious cycle. The only love he’d ever really had to hold onto was the love he shared with his siblings. That'd had to make up for all the other types of love he lacked. And he knew he was lucky to at least have that. It was something. There were plenty of examples in Canaryville and beyond that had none of it from anyone. He did try to look on the bright side on occasion.

But he couldn’t remain in his childhood home forever. He was working towards making something that could be just his own. It would be hard, and it might take a while, but it would be worth it, and he could learn to get by without the immediate support.

Lip had been the first to move on, to no one’s surprise. He was the family genius after all, and even though Fi was older, she had taken on the responsibility of sticking around for the benefit of every Gallagher that came after her, and being the head of the household that they needed to survive. She wouldn’t let herself off the hook until they were all of age, and thriving as much as it was possible for them to thrive.

Ian missed Lip’s constant presence in his life, but he was happy for him too. So far, he wasn’t fucking it up at school too badly. Besides which, with him living at the dorms, when Frank had finally been kicked out of the house for good some months back, Ian was in line to take Fiona’s old room. She’d moved into the ‘master’ which was maybe about ten square feet bigger than her old room, with the added benefits of a real door and a small closet. But now Ian didn’t have to share a space with his little brothers, and he had the full size bed, rather than the smaller-than-twin thing he’d had to deal with his whole life. His feet still hung off the mattress unless he scrunched up his body, but at least he had a comfortable amount of room to scrunch in.

He groaned again, debating whether or not he should eat something yet, thoughts creeping back to Mickey. They’d had such a fun time together, and Ian was totally blindsided by it. He’d felt so much like himself with Mickey. It was just. . . comfortable. And maybe as the day wore on, Ian had noticed that Mickey had an amazing smile, nice white teeth and all. He’d only ever seen him with a haughty smirk at most. But when he cut loose and seemed to actually be having a good time, he laughed fully, and his face lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

Ian had noticed his eyes too. They morphed into different shades of blue depending on the lighting, and crinkled cutely at the corners. He’d even grown fond of the rough appearance of Mickey’s hands. He was always gesturing with them, and instead of Ian’s usual disdain for the juvenile message of ‘FUCK U-UP’ the knuckles of those hands displayed, he’d found himself considering them more crudely charming and amusing. He didn’t think he’d ever feel intimidated or threatened by those hands, or the man behind them again.

But then he couldn’t be sure. . . Were they friends now? Would Mickey allow that? He liked to think he would, but Ian really couldn’t say. Mickey had opened himself up a little bit, but he remained an enigma in many ways.

Nothing illustrated that more than Ian’s faux pas that morning that had sent Mickey fleeing like the house was on fire.

Ian had long assumed that Mickey was as straight as they come, because he’d never been given a reason to believe otherwise. It wasn’t just the way he carried himself, or that he’d grown up in a family that very much functioned like a gang, and that that gang just so happened to enjoy ‘fag-bashing’ as a favorite pastime; it was that he’d heard plenty from Mandy, Lip, and other random neighborhood people that Mickey had banged a good portion of the trashiest South Side girls in their age range, as well. Nothing had ever given Ian the slightest inkling of interest or otherness from the guy. . . no gay tingles. Of course, he’d never spent much time around him personally. In the couple years he hung around Mandy, they’d barely interacted. She’d always preferred being out of the Milkovich house for horrible reasons she’d opened up to Ian about slowly over time. But then Lip had broken her heart one too many times, and they’d drifted apart.

So Ian mainly remembered Mickey as a bully who’d given him a bloody nose and a couple of skinned knees when he was a kid, and later, a looming background threat to avoid when walking around the neighborhood, and even later, a guy who liked to give him unwarranted shit at work, due to some kind of irrational hatred. Questioning if there was a possibility that Mickey could be bi or gay had never crossed Ian’s mind, because it had no reason to.

Then yesterday had happened, and while nothing overtly pointed to Mickey being interested in more than friendship, Ian had had some experience intercepting hidden homo vibes, and he had caught Mickey giving him a couple of looks that indicated deeper interest. Still, Ian had kept himself impassive on that score, worried that any wrong move might push Mickey too far outside of his comfort zone and into defensive mode.

And then that morning had happened.

Ian wasn’t sure when exactly his body had decided to gravitate toward Mickey’s in bed, but it had done so of its own accord while he was in slumber. It was never a conscious choice, and he couldn't recall any dreams he may have had in the night. Waking up to find himself gently dry-humping Mickey’s perky ass was jarring to say the least. There was no mistaking Ian’s raging boner for anything other than exactly what it was. And as if a horny dude searching for a place to put his dick in his sleep weren't bad enough, he’d had his arm thrown around Mickey possessively, like he had a right to him. Like they already had an intimate connection. Like they meant something to each other.

Ian had been mortified, quickly distancing himself and hoping against hope that Mickey was still passed out in his drunken stupor. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin the bond that they’d built from nothing, whatever it ended up being. He didn’t need Mickey thinking he was some kind of creepy gay predator. He also didn’t particularly feel like having his ass kicked first thing in the morning if Mickey turned out to have a line in the sand where his apparent absence of homophobia had seemed to be when he was asking Ian questions and teasing him the day before.

But Mickey _had_ been awake, and Ian had started stuttering out some apology he couldn’t even remember, but Mickey had been calm, at least. And Ian had said something about what a bad idea he knew it was to do that to Mickey when they’d just been platonically sharing a bed, and there’d been a brief flash of something on Mickey’s face. Something like regret. And then he’d asked _why_. Fucking ‘why?’ Like there wasn’t any obvious answer. Like he was actually curious to know. And Ian was taken aback, because out of every reaction he’d been geared up for in the span of about 90 seconds tops, that hadn’t been on the list.

And then suddenly Mickey was just gone. No explanation. No clarity. No closure. He’d ordered Ian to just forget about it, like that was something that could possibly happen.

Ian didn't know whether to be grateful, or disheartened, or pissed. He’d cycled through all of those emotions and more. Was he attracted to Mickey? Could he be fully attracted without knowing for sure if his advances were unwanted or not? It had been so fucking ambiguous.

Most of all, he was worried about how Mickey would act towards him in public now. Would he brush it all off and act normal with him the way he had yesterday, or would he give Ian the cold shoulder out of spite? It was a genuine toss-up.

At least he didn’t have to find out the answer that day. He’d mercifully been scheduled two days off in a row, which was his preference, but not one that was always honored. He could spend the day wallowing in his hungover misery, in bed, hoping Fiona wouldn't burst in or call to demand some kind of obligation of him concerning the kids. He was even thinking about ordering a pizza.

He reached for his discarded pants on the floor as someone on the baking show put their show-stopper cake in the oven, searching his pockets to see if he had any weed left over from the random street score yesterday. Luckily, he had enough to relieve some of his queasiness and offset his swimmy brain with a cloudy one, which let him drop out of his thoughts a bit more, and eventually drift back to sleep. He woke up a few hours later, at that time in the afternoon right before the kids would start arriving home from school, so he shuffled his way to the bathroom, and called for that pizza, then migrated himself to the living room sofa, blankets and pillows included.

“You look like crap,” Debbie announced when she came in, standing over him with her arms crossed in judgment.

“Thanks, Debs, you’re so sweet,” he rasped.

She rolled her eyes. “You sick or something?”

“Something.”

She tutted. “You party too much. You need to grow up.”

“Says the wannabe 40-year-old who is actually 14,” he grumbled. “Want me to trot out all your choicest decisions in the last two years? Cuz there’s some doozies.”

“You’re an idiot,” she bit out, stomping her way to the kitchen.

“Where’s Liam?” he yelled after her.

“At Vee’s,” she hollered back.

“Where’s Carl?”

“With his degenerate friends, or our degenerate father? How should I know?”

“You wanna watch Netflix with me? I ordered pizza.”

“I have homework.”

“Do it after.”

She retraced her steps just as loudly, huffing as if it was a real inconvenience. “Fine. One hour.”

“Yes ma’am, thank you so much for gracing me with your presence,” he teased.

She shoved his feet aside and sat at the other end of the couch, giving him a searching look. “Are you sad?”

He furrowed his brow. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. You’re just all. . . needy.”

“Jesus, Debs, I’m just hungover. It’s not that deep.”

“Mmhmm,” she said. “What are we watching?”

“That stupid baking show you got me into.”

That made her crack a smile. “Cool.”

The next day found Ian nervous to return to work. He’d never felt that before going to this job. He’d never had to worry about running into a boy there that gave him a fluttery feeling, while simultaneously making him doubt himself. And it wasn’t like he’d never hooked up with anyone on the staff before. There was a bartender named Joe that he used to have a thing with, but he’d quit months ago, and then there was Eddie who was just his friend, but he occasionally fucked around with for fun. He wasn’t even sure why, it was just how they were with each other. There were no feelings, and Ian found him a little ridiculous as a person, but Eddie was skilled at sucking dick, and Ian had been commended on that front too, so it was something they found themselves doing for one another sometimes. It was like a secret handshake or something, but with orgasms at the end. Why not? They were both young, dumb, and full of cum; their horniness bursting at the seems and creating pretty liberal hoe-ish tendencies. Eddie was a good partner in crime, and didn’t judge Ian too much for his extracurricular arrangements with the older married gays of his life.

Nothing had even happened with Mickey. Not really. But that near 24 hours they’d spent together felt like a tectonic shift, and Ian couldn’t help the butterflies.

He went in for the dinner shift, dropping his things at his locker, then casually perusing the kitchen whiteboard as he walked past, only to see Mickey’s name at the top and crossed out, meaning he’d been in for a day or mid shift, and already gotten cut. Just his fucking luck. Ian’s stomach didn’t unclench until at least an hour into his shift, when he’d been on his feet long enough to get distracted from his own life and focus on keeping busy with the job.

His Friday shift started at the same time, and when he walked past the kitchen, he didn’t have to glance at the board, because he heard Mickey’s inimitable voice carrying as he talked to someone about something actually job-related. Something about rolling pizza dough.

Ian couldn’t help it if he turned his head to scan the room as he went by, catching Mickey’s eye for just a split second and offering a kind of half-assed wave. He received a curt, steely-eyed nod in return, before Mickey looked away and continued his conversation.

Welp. Lackluster and underwhelming covered the vibe of that reaction. Ian swallowed his pride, feeling slightly foolish, and continued through to the dining room. He tried to put Mickey’s presence out of his mind, but it kept coming back to him. He kept replaying the small interaction in his head without end, trying to justify it in his mind. Mickey was probably just being aloof because all his kitchen buddies were standing around and he wanted to save face. It didn’t necessarily mean that he’d gone back to despising the mere sight of Ian in the restaurant.

Except the following days did directly support the hypothesis that Mickey had in fact reverted to hating Ian’s guts.

Ian could tell when someone was avoiding him. Not that it wasn’t fucking obvious, really, because there wasn’t a lot of subtlety to Mickey’s tactics. He slammed locker doors too hard when Ian walked in, huffed his way stoically out of the hallway when they accidentally ran into each other coming from opposite directions, booked it out of the break area if Ian dared to show his face out back for a smoke, and tersely rejected any civil attempts at casual conversation.

The crowning moment, though, had been the Sunday brunch rush when Ian had forgotten to modify a picky eater’s order in the computer before sending it off, and had to go back to the kitchen to ask to modify the ticket by hand. The ‘server in the kitchen’ gaffe was a silly, but very real situation to be avoided whenever possible, and Ian rarely made that kind of mistake. He should’ve been given a pass, with a little bit of stink-eye thrown in, and maybe a barb at his expense. But Mickey took it upon himself to throw a full on _Hell’s Kitchen_ fucking temper-tantrum about it, getting all up in his face as Ian gaped in horror, spewing harsh, belittling words along with a small amount of spittle. If they hadn’t been at work, Ian was certain Mickey would’ve taken a swing at him.

The kitchen was dead silent aside from Mickey’s colorful yelling, and all wide eyes were on the two of them. A thousand beginnings of a retort floated through Ian’s mind, and he wanted to react back in anger, but he was so aghast that he was struck speechless. Whatever Mickey was yelling was barely even registering, oddly enough, it was just like a long flatline beep ringing in his ears, with some choice snippets breaking through the surface on occasion, such as: “fuckin’ simple-ass illiterate bitch,” and “no-good Raggedy Ann motherfucker,” and “why the fuck do we hire incompetent assholes who can’t even complete a simple task?” After a couple minutes, which felt more like a couple of hours to Ian, another cook, Danny, stepped in and physically pulled Mickey away, pushing him toward the nearest exit to walk it off.

Ian looked around as if in slow motion, and Macy, one of the few people Ian ever talked to back there, stepped forward with the ticket he needed, so he could quickly jot down the mods, then he scurried back to the packed dining hall on auto-pilot. He wasn’t able to fully shake it off during his shift, his insides feeling as if they’d been eaten away by some corrosive agent. It affected his tips and everything.

He’d never felt so fucking humiliated. And it wasn’t even fair, because there wasn’t any justification for it.

From then on, Ian actively avoided Mickey. He’d thought hard about seeking him out to see if he could make him feel at least a fraction of the embarrassment he’d felt that morning, but in the end, he just didn’t care to keep making it a thing. He definitely knew that Mickey wasn’t the type to apologize, but there was still this hope in the back of his mind that the guilt might finally eat away at him, and he might try to make some kind of amends. But that of course was merely wishful thinking.

So just like that, they were strangers again, as if the blip of a day they’d spent together had never even happened. Maybe Mickey wasn’t what Ian thought. Maybe he’d fucking invented it all. He’d definitely read too much into it, like he was that naive kid all over again, just wanting someone to see him, and to like him, and maybe even to love him, just for being him. But no one ever had unselfish motivations towards him. That wasn’t the kind of guy Ian was. That wasn’t what he attracted. Nice people with good intentions didn’t really exist in his world. Some just faked it well enough to get what they wanted from him, and he pretended that it was all well and good and sort of like the real thing.

He still saw his regular rotation of men, and he still visited the clubs for quick releases, but the thrill seemed to be fading away.

It was like he started getting trapped by over-analytical thoughts about his life. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? Did he even fucking want this anymore? Did he even care about any of it? How long could he keep on going with it? How far could he push it?

He started spending his nights off over at Lip’s dorm room, pestering him for help he couldn’t really offer. But he was still the best listener Ian had in his life. Still the only one he could really confide in freely. So even without the advice, it was enough. He felt less lonely and more like his old self. He’d been starting to think he was turning into someone else entirely. Not even like an evolution of who he was, but like a fabrication of who he wished he was. Like the fantasy life was overlapping with his real life, folding in on itself uncomfortably, until it smothered him out completely and he was just lost.

How did one day with some asshole send him into an existential tailspin? He wasn’t supposed to be one of those pretentious people who cared about what it all meant. He believed in doing whatever the hell he wanted, and living in the moment, and not letting convention sway him. The bigger picture could go fuck itself, and so could fear of an unknown future.

He was all set to enroll in school soon, and he decided that that would be the change he needed to reinvigorate himself. He’d let it guide him to a whole new purpose, and a focus away from all the superficial things ruling his life now. He’d find a way to silence the desperate voices in his head.

His hours at the restaurant became ho-hum again. He’d let go of any expectations that Mickey might come around, and tried to move on from whatever stumbling block that was. It was still a source of bewilderment to him, but it looked more and more like he was never gonna figure it out. So he stopped trying.

And of course when he stopped trying, the universe decided to start giving him answers. Albeit, not in the way he would’ve hoped.

It was a slow night, and they were down to the bare bones staff-wise. The bartender was gone, one manager was holed up in the office doing whatever, and Ian was the last server closing down. Eddie had just left for the night, and Mickey was the only one left in the kitchen, including the dishwasher.

Ian had managed to skirt him all evening, and did extra side-work just to avoid running into him as he exited the building. The manager had already locked up the front and retreated back to the office to count money and enter in spreadsheets.

Then as Ian made his way out the back door, he heard some distinctly interesting noises coming from the other side of the dumpsters a bit down the way. He almost kept walking toward the street, but something in the pit of his stomach was telling him to investigate. A strange force pulling him to the scene like a magnet. He kept close to the opposite wall of the alley, and practically tip-toed to peek around the dumpster.

How he managed to hold in a surprised outburst, he’d never know, because right there in front of him was Mickey, his back against the bricks, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, and on his knees in front him, unmistakably, was Eddie the fucking blowjob queen.

Ian was too shocked to move for a minute, and with his supremely awesome luck as of late, it was one minute too long, because Mickey’s eyes fluttered open and landed right on his stricken face. Time seemed to stretch out as their gazes locked, and Mickey didn’t shy away. In fact, Mickey had the fucking gall to arch one perfect eyebrow and smirk right in his face.

Ian’s body flushed with heat, and he turned heel and stormed into the night.

_‘Challenge accepted, motherfucker._ ’

Ian tossed and turned half the night away in his bed later, trying to get that one scene, that one _look_ , out of his head. He wasn't sure exactly why he felt so personally affronted, but he did. And it had nothing to do with what he had going on with Eddie. The only thing Eddie was in that whole interaction was a footnote, which made no sense, since Ian was the one who was actually on the sidelines. An innocent bystander in some horror show that made no sense in the realm of the sane.

Finally, after a good two months of feeling off-kilter, it dawned on Ian that he was fucking _obsessed_ with Mickey Milkovich. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it, but he knew he was really great at living in denial. And now he knew that he had intentions, and wants, and desires that all stemmed from the little black kettle of ire that was Mickey.

The prevailing thought as he pondered that moment he’d intruded on was, _‘It should’ve been me. It should be me. Why isn’t it me?’_

Ian all but hissed at Eddie like some territorial animal on the wild plains of Africa, at work the next day. It was a mid shift, so there was a lot of downtime the first few hours, and that usually meant a lot of standing around talking shit, but Ian wasn’t in the mood.

“What the hell is your problem?” Eddie finally asked, obviously noting the cold shoulder.

“Who said I had a problem?” he replied tersely.

“Ian. Honey. _Sweetie_ ,” Eddie stared him down pointedly from head to toe. “Let’s not play that game. You know I don’t do passive aggressive.”

Ian huffed his exasperation. “You’re so fucking self-centered. Why do you assume my mood has anything to do with you?”

“Uhhhh, because I fucking know you? I’m like the number one person you bitch to around here. If you had something bugging you, and it wasn’t about me, you’d already be complaining about it directly into my poor little ear. So what the fuck did I do to you? You were fine when I left you last night.”

Ian stiffened. “Can’t you just drop it and mind your own business for once?”

“No, I can’t. You didn’t even deny it. Why are you pissed at me?”

“I’m not. . . I’m. . . I. . . I saw you.”

“Saw me. . . what, where, when, who?”

“Saw you. . ." he lowered his voice in case anyone was overhearing, “blowing Mickey, outside, last night.”

Eddie’s eyes widened in recognition, then squinted in suspicion just as quickly. “Ian. . . you and I. . . I thought we were just friends on the same wavelength. I don’t have feelings for _you_ , you don’t have feelings for _me_. We just help each other out sometimes.”

Ian rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly. “Will you shut the fuck up? It’s not like that. I’m not jealous that you blew some dude. You blow dudes all the time. I haven’t caught feelings for you. Relax.”

Eddie let out a relieved whoosh, palming his own chest. “Thank hell for that. You scared me.”

Ian went back to rolling silverware, going quiet again.

“So. . . will you please fucking explain what your deal is about it, then? You’re acting so weird.”

“I’m just. . . thrown for a loop, I guess. About Mickey.”  


“Didn’t know you ever thought about him.”

“I don’t,” Ian lied, then corrected himself. “Well, I didn’t. But lately I sort of have been. I just. . . didn’t think he was into dick.”

“Who says he is? He never touched my dick,” said Eddie. “You know straight guys. They’ll get their cock sucked by anyone if they’re horny enough. Especially when they think no one’ll ever find out. Just gotta catch them at the right time.”

“That what it felt like to you?” asked Ian. “A straight guy looking to blow his load real quick?”

“All it felt like to me was another dick in my throat. His hands smelled like kitchen, his crotch was sweaty, and I managed to grab his ass a little towards the end. It was a nice one. I’m still not understanding why you care, though? He fucking berated you in front of a large group of people. You a masochist now?”

“No. Well, maybe, actually. I don’t know. He and I. . . we spent this day together a couple months ago. That day we got profit sharing and Lauren ditched me. I asked you to sub in, but you couldn’t, and I never told you the story, because Mickey was such a dick to me afterward, but we were together for like a full 24 hours. Nothing happened, like sex-wise, but it was good. We had a really good time. And then we fell asleep in my bed completely blotto. Fully clothed. And in the morning, I had the ol’ morning wood, accidental cuddle, dry hump thing going on. And Mickey left. And it was all ambiguous. And then he went back to treating me like dirt. So I tried to forget about him, but it’s like I can’t. I've been so fucking confused about him. And then, out of the fucking blue, I randomly catch _you_ in the alleyway with a mouthful of his cock. So now I’m like, understandably _‘what the fuck?_ ’ You know?”

“Oh my god. Iiiiaaann. You’re rambling like a lunatic. You have feelings for _that_ guy? _That guy?_ ”

Ian shrugged. “Maybe. I’m telling you, he’s different when you catch him alone. _Without_ shoving his dick in your mouth. And we're from the same neighborhood, so we kind of just. . . get each other.”

“Well,” sighed Eddie. “Maybe he’s just one of those deep closet cases. The young ones still exist, you know. They’re not all the grandpa types you fuck on the weekends.”

“Did you actually ask him if he’s gay?”

“Sweetie, we didn’t exactly chit-chat before or after. I still barely understand how it happened in the first place. He propositioned me like it was nothing, completely unexpected. I didn't even have time to think. Why didn’t _you_ fucking ask him if you spent some epic day together?”

“Didn’t think I had to. I know his family. Everybody knows his family on the South Side. They’re all a buncha queer-bashing neanderthals.”

“Well, there you go. Either self-loathing, or self-preservation, I guess. Most likely a bit of both. If you want him, just be a big boy, and fucking talk to him. Or blow him by the dumpsters like I did.”

Ian couldn’t help laughing. “Fuck you.”

“No thanks, you’re old news to me now," taunted Eddie.

“Slut,” teased Ian, throwing a bundle of cloth-wrapped silverware at him.

“That’s a health code violation.”

A few days later, Ian still hadn’t made up his mind what to do about Mickey, when he stumbled upon the man himself in a small supermarket in their neighborhood. Like the fates were putting him right there in Ian’s path. Mickey hadn't noticed him, so it gave Ian a chance to just observe him from afar for a little while, trying to think of a way he could approach him that wouldn’t be super awkward. It’s not like Ian had forgiven him for his shitty attitude and unjustified mistreatment, but he figured he was more interested in figuring out what exactly Mickey wanted from him, than he was in punishing him for previous abuses. Now that Ian had a broader picture, he was more intent on getting answers. And he just couldn't get that fucking look out of his head. The one when Mickey had caught Ian watching him getting off. It was like a plague slowly addling his brains.

He bypassed a couple of aisles, not paying attention to whatever products lined the shelves, gaze intent on following his target. He rolled his eyes when he spotted Mickey pocket some kind of mixed nuts, then later some snack cakes. Ian remembered that he was there for a reason, and that was for ingredients Debbie needed to try some big new recipe. His basket was almost full, so he shook his head, and went to collect the last couple items he needed. If he ran into Mickey, then he’d talk to him, if not, fuck it. He’d wait for the right time to present itself.

He paid for the items at the front, barely interacting with the bored check-out clerk, then exited laden with two fistfuls of plastic bags. He wondered if maybe he should wait out front for Mickey to appear, just to at least get a read on where his head was at regarding Ian, but he didn’t have to. Ian nearly walked right into him on the sidewalk, where he’d stopped to light a cigarette on his way out.

Much to his surprise, Mickey didn’t toss out any sarcastic comments, or even say anything at all. He just gaped at Ian with a kind of stunned look on his face, as if it was so odd for them to see each other so near to both their houses. He wondered how many near misses they’d unknowingly had over the years, and what might’ve happened if they’d been more aware of each other earlier. If Ian had hung out with Mandy over at her house, instead of his. If Mickey had been robbing the convenience store Ian worked at, instead of some other sucker’s. Ian might’ve called him out a long time ago; maybe found out some of his secrets already.

“Still practicing that five-finger discount, I see,” Ian stated matter-of-fact.

“What, you gonna narc on me over some fuckin’ munchies?” Mickey asked, all severely arched brow.

“Chill out, man. Petty revenge ain’t my style, don’t worry.”

Mickey began a slow once-over of Ian’s form, and was just opening his mouth, most likely to say something insulting that he found to be witty, when a bald man with a baseball bat emerged from the store, yelling.

“I SAW YOU ON MY FUCKIN’ CAMERAS, YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

“Oh, fuck!” Mickey burst, and took off running.

Ian was stuck kind of in limbo, turning his head back and forth between them, until he heard, “Come on, firecrotch!”

On instinct, Ian started running too, bags swinging haphazardly in his fists. He fleetingly thought about how it was a good thing that girl had double-bagged. He’d thought it a waste at the time, but now he was grateful. They ran a few blocks before Ian slowed down, aware that the middle-aged store-owner wasn’t following them anymore.

Mickey noticed that Ian was coming to a stop, and turned back to meet him, shoving him backward as he tried to catch his breath, laughing with a hysterical edge. Ian couldn’t help but get swept up in whatever giddiness was overtaking Mickey, and dropped his bags so he could shove back too.

They wrestled around for a bit, giggling like children, before Mickey shoved Ian up against the bricks. He looked totally keyed up, almost like he was high on coke or something. Like the adrenaline rush of almost being nabbed was some kind of drug. And the way he was looking at Ian, it was like he was some kind of vessel for release. Ian’s laughter got stuck in his throat, as they stood there staring each other right in the eye, breathing heavily in each other’s personal space.

And then Mickey was reaching for Ian’s belt and zipper, and before he could think twice, Ian reached for Mickey’s in kind. And their hands were inside each other’s pants, bringing each other to hardness, then stroking more firmly, with purpose. Ian's mind was on a single track, not questioning what any of it meant, or what might be going through Mickey’s head. He just let it happen. Their foreheads knocked together, and Mickey’s breath felt hot against his skin. It didn’t take long for their orgasms to build, and they both came in their underwear in quick succession. It’d been fast, and rough, and a little dirty, which were all sexy things in Ian’s mind.

He wiped his hand on his jeans, not really caring if they got stained at the moment.

“So are you gay?” he asked.

Mickey laughed. “You fuckin’ serious, dude?”

Ian shrugged. “Yeah, I’m serious. Bi? Closeted? Straight, but horny? I don’t really get your whole deal.”

Mickey was still breathing heavily, looking amused as he did up his pants, then lit another cigarette. “What do I gotta do, formally announce it to the whole fuckin’ restaurant in the middle of a Friday night rush? Not like I go shoutin' it from the goddamn rooftops.”

“So you are.”

“What?”

“Gay.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Why’re you so obsessed with labels, man? What does it matter?” Ian gave him a pointed look. “Yeah. Yes. I’m fuckin’ gay. Big ol’ ‘mo. You happy now?”

Ian grinned. “Guess so.”

"You wanna chit-chat some more, or you wanna go back to my place and bang?”

Ian raised his eyebrows in disbelief, before breaking out into a smile. “Lead the way.”

They made the walk to the Milkovich house in relative silence, Ian lost in a bit of a daze at the unexpected turn of events that had been set in motion on his supermarket run. He tried not to get in his head too much about it, and stay cool. It wasn’t that difficult given Mickey’s ultra-casual demeanor. There was no hesitancy on his part and no sign of freaking out. It was all. . . not what Ian had pictured.

The house was quiet when they arrived, which seemed very uncharacteristic. Ian glanced around the messy space, wondering what he should do with the bags in his hands. There wasn’t really anything that required immediate refrigeration.

"Everyone’s gone for the weekend,” Mickey informed him, kicking off his shoes.

Ian placed the bags next to the door, and followed his lead, leaving his own shoes next to the bags.

Mickey barely looked back at him as he walked toward his room, nonchalantly stripping off his shirt as he went. He kicked the bedroom door open, and dropped trou.

Ian licked his lips, and started to get naked, eyes trained on Mickey the whole time, mesmerized by every blasé move and gesture. He was acting like all of this was nothing at all, and it was throwing Ian for a loop. It was like some kind of strange fever dream.

To make matters even more baffling, Mickey tossed lube and a condom in his general direction, and climbed up onto the bed on all fours. All fucking business.

Ian gasped in surprise. Part of him wanted to be offended that Mickey wouldn’t even take the time to check out the body he worked so hard to maintain. That he wasn't interested in checking out his dick or anything. He didn’t seem to wanna watch Ian at all.

But then there was Mickey’s ass. Propped up in the air, on full fucking display. . . waiting. Just for him.

Fuck it. If Mickey didn’t wanna see what he was in for, Ian would gladly cut to the chase and just let him feel it instead.

He stepped out of his boxer briefs, unable to resist sassing the quiet man in front of him. “What, no foreplay?”

“Isn't that what we just did?” Mickey answered over his shoulder.

“But we came,” Ian reasoned. That should’ve been considered round one, right? They’d already cooled down from it and everything.

“So?” said Mickey, like Ian was a fucking idiot for questioning him.

“So. . . I guess I’ll. . .” Ian was a little confused about where he should begin now.

“What, you need an instruction manual?”

Ian snickered. “I can’t believe you’re such an asshole even when you’re trying to get laid.”

“Thought you wanted an asshole.”

“Oh my god, that was the worst pun ever. Jesus.”

Mickey sighed deeply. “Will you just fu—“

Ian didn’t even pause to think before smacking Mickey's ass to stop his words in their tracks.

Mickey gasped and Ian could tell he was about to say something else, so he smacked him again to cut him off, a little bit harder this time.

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey,” he said huskily in his ear as he leaned down over him, taking the lube in hand.

He flicked the cap open, straightened again, and drizzled the cold liquid all over Mickey’s crack, eliciting a small hiss as he reached down to rub it into his skin, before unceremoniously shoving a finger inside.

Mickey pushed his ass out higher, and Ian smirked, still on his feet, looking down at the appealing picture Mickey’s posterior painted for him, as he slid his finger in and out at a steady pace; also appreciating every curve, arch, depression, and bump of muscle, bone, and smooth skin that made up his strong back.

“That all you got?” Mickey asked, voice too ragged not to betray the feigned nature of his cool.

Ian smacked him again, shoving another finger in along side the first one, and Mickey moaned in a whiney register that made Ian’s dick twitch.

“I told you to shut up,” Ian said, pressing his fingers down in search of that pleasure spot inside of him, watching Mickey’s pale skin bloom red with his large handprint.

Mickey groaned and began pushing himself back on Ian’s fingers, booty bouncing in a way that brought Ian’s cock to full attention. He grabbed a handful of jiggly fat, squeezing it as he worked his hole open.

Mickey moaned his pleasure again, pushing back faster.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian rasped in wonder. “You really like taking it, huh?”

The rim of Mickey’s hole looked so slick and tight around Ian’s long fingers, and he couldn’t wait to see what his dick looked like thrusting into it.

He added another finger, tugging that fleshy butt-cheek, then slapping it again.

“Oh, fuck!” Mickey punched out, ass still working Ian’s fingers just as much as Ian was working that ass.

Ian had no idea that Mickey would be like this in bed. It was already better than what he’d imagined in his wildest sexy daydreams.

He pulled his fingers out, wiped them on the bedsheets, and reached for the condom. He opened it up and rolled it on swiftly, slicking himself with more lube as he stared down at Mickey’s wanton form. He shoved himself in slowly, pulling both asscheeks apart, and holding on fast to the meat of them.

Mickey whined again, and Ian bit his lip to keep from groaning. He eased himself in and out with care for a few minutes, letting Mickey adjust to his above-average size.

“What the fuck, Gallagher? Stop messin’ around and fuckin’ fuck me already!”

Ian gripped his juicy ass harder, and watched his own cock slide out, then slam back in, speeding up until he’d set a brutal pace.

Mickey’s hole looked so good stretched around him. So fucking good. He spanked him again for being mouthy and demanding, delighting in the loud moaning that action provoked. Yeah, Mickey Milkovich was a needy little bottom bitch boy.

But after some minutes of Ian pounding into him, Mickey took control; pushing back onto him at a good pace, until Ian just stood there, watching Mickey fuck himself on his dick.

He kept one hand on his lower back so he wouldn’t slip off, the other still kneading one cheek apart so he could watch himself disappear into that pretty pink hole.

“Goddamn," Ian grunted.

Mickey was bucking back onto him with wild abandon, and it was one of the hottest things Ian had ever seen. _‘Needy little power bottom fool.’_

Ian couldn’t take it anymore, and pulled out abruptly. Mickey nearly fell off the bed pushing back against nothing, but Ian quickly grabbed him by the hips and flipped him over onto his back, manhandling him further up the mattress, so he could climb onto the bed.

He was keenly aware of the fact that they hadn’t kissed yet, and he wondered if that was just a kind of accident, or something deliberate on Mickey’s part. He didn’t fucking care, though. He covered Mickey’s sweaty body with his own, and crashed his mouth down onto those thick red lips, licking them open, running his fingers through that pitch black hair, then scraping them down his neck, and shoulders, to his chest, to tweak at his nipples.

Mickey groaned into his mouth, and slid his hands down Ian’s broad back to grip at his ass, running a finger down the crack, while Ian reached down to guide himself back inside of Mickey. After a few pumps, he pulled back to adjust Mickey’s strong thighs, so that they were draped over his own, and he could slide in with ease. He took in the way Mickey’s dick strained against his belly, balls taut and drawn up towards his body. Mickey looked so good like this. His hair was a mess, and his face was slack with ecstasy. Ian was making him come undone, and that was a fucking amazing feat in his mind. He’d never seen anyone look so far away from their natural state before. This was like seeing a whole different person.

Ian licked his palm a few times and took Mickey's cock in hand, offering that extra bit of relief. In no time at all, his hand was slick with pre-cum, easing the job.

Mickey gasped and keened, “Yeah, like that. Fuck me harder!”

Ian smiled and snapped his hips, jabbing deliberately at Mickey’s prostate. He lowered his face to Mickey’s again, licking at his lips until they were kissing once more. Mickey held onto Ian’s neck, bucking back against him until they found a good rhythm together, then Ian pulled him up into his lap.

Mickey opened his eyes, looking down into Ian’s as he writhed on his dick while Ian continued jacking him off, breath panting harshly against each other’s faces.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ come,” Mickey said, biting his lip.

“Do it,” commanded Ian, speeding up his strokes and thrusting upward to meet Mickey’s slides down onto him.

Mickey’s arms squeezed Ian tightly about the neck and shoulders as he rode him to completion, cum splattering over both their chests, hole spasming around Ian’s impossibly hard cock, nudging him closer to the edge. He stilled for a moment on his lap, and Ian let him breathe into his neck for a beat, then laid him back down and pulled out, yanking off the condom and tossing it aside.

He straddled Mickey’s torso and jerked himself as he stared at his flushed, spent face, still biting that fucking lip. And then suddenly, Mickey was leaning forward, smacking Ian’s wrist aside, taking him into his own hand and mouth.

“Oh shit,” Ian stuttered, and groaned. “Fuck!”

He thrust his hips into it a little, because he couldn’t stop himself at that point, and Mickey took it, sucking the head of his cock and giving him a tingly sensation right down to his fucking toes, while lightly stroking the base.

“Holy shit.”

He could see Mickey smirking around his girth, and then, as if that weren’t enough to do him in, he felt Mickey’s other hand exploring the crack of his ass again, and then there was a finger pushing in just far enough to be felt. And like a button being pressed, he was shooting his load down Mickey’s throat, moaning louder than he was sure he usually moaned his releases. He caressed Mickey’s head between his big hands, sweat dripping down onto his upturned face.

Mickey pulled off and looked up at him, cheeks all rosy, lips shiny and swollen, pupils dilated out so there was barely any iris left. Ian was in awe, and he couldn’t fucking speak. He collapsed down on top of Mickey, hoping that was okay, because he didn’t have the energy to move. Their chests heaved against each other, and as Ian’s skin cooled down, he felt goosebumps spring up all over his body.

“Mmmm,” he finally found himself uttering. “That was good.”

Mickey chuckled and swatted at him, so Ian rolled over onto his back to give him some space. He saw him reach for his smokes in his periphery, and held his fingers out in a silent request for one, which Mickey obliged.

They smoked in silence for a couple long minutes whilst contradictorily trying to catch their breath. Ian wasn’t sure what to say. There were so many things swirling around in his head, but none of them were exactly light post-sex conversation. He wouldn’t even know where to begin anyway. He wondered if he should feel a little bit ashamed of how easy it’d been for Mickey to get exactly what he wanted from him after behaving so harshly toward him for months for absolutely no good reason that was Ian's own fault. But was he allowed to dress Mickey down for it now? Right after he’d owned his ass all over the bed they were lying in, spent and satiated?

He settled on something that really had no relevance to anything he actually cared about. “You get chased down the street by angry proprietors a lot?”

Mickey snorted. “Not as much as I did when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, I used to steal shit too, but I kinda stopped once I had the money to afford what I needed.”

Mickey shrugged. “Even though I don’t have to steal anymore to survive, I guess it still feels good to take stuff sometimes. The fuckin’ thrill of gettin’ away with it, or almost _not_ gettin’ away with it sometimes. Maybe I’m a little addicted to that feeling. Plus, fuck those assholes anyway. They have an expected margin of shrinkage. My tin of nuts and box of chocolate cakes is a drop in the bucket. The man can kiss my ass.”

Ian chortled. _“The man?”_

“Yeah, the fuckin’ _man_. Anyone who buys into the whole capitalist, corporate retail bullshit is the man.”

“Pretty sure that guy doesn’t own a chain of stores.”

“Nah, but it’s a franchise location. Needs to have that recognizable name on the sign to draw people in. He’s still the fuckin’ man, and he makes more money than we do. Why am I explaining myself to you? Shut the hell up.”

Ian laughed, exhaling one last cloud of smoke and handing the butt to Mickey so he could stub it out in the ashtray on his side of the bed.

“How’s Mandy?” Ian asked out of nowhere. He still had no idea what to say.

“Uh,” Mickey looked at him like he was weird. “She’s fine, man. Hot and heavy with some fuckin’ jerkoff with an apartment, so she's barely around here anymore. She waits tables at some shitty diner over on South Halstead. I’ve tried to get her to come apply at places up north, but she don’t think she's good enough. Stubborn as always.”

Ian smiled sadly. He remembered Mandy’s hardheadedness and lack of self-esteem all too well. He wished they’d never stopped being friends. Maybe they could become friends again.

“I’m surprised you both still live here, to be honest.”

“I’m only still here cuz the mortgage payments are cheap, and my shithead father's doin' a 7-year stretch in Iron City. Couldn’t be bringin’ you around here if he was still a threat. I’ll be long gone before he ever gets out.”

“So then the rest of your family knows about you?”

“Pretty much. Mandy knows. I think my brothers are mostly just oblivious, or don’t care enough to really acknowledge it. It’s weird. Don’t think anyone’s that hung up about it, but it’s not like they go around tellin’ people. You know how it is around here. Don’t need some asshole gunnin’ for us for any reasons other than the obvious ones.”

Ian sighed. “I still can’t really believe it.”

“Yeah, well, considerin' what just happened, you should probly get over it.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?"

That was the bottom line, really. Ian didn’t understand why Mickey didn’t just say something since he’d obviously known Ian was gay for a while before they were friends for a day.

“I just didn’t see the point.”

“Why? Usually when people find out someone else has something in common with them, they get excited and they talk about it. You know, maybe even bond over it. Why didn’t you want that?”

“ _Bond over it?_ The fuck I look like to you? I don’t need to out myself to every fag that crosses my path, okay? I don’t care about that shit unless I’m about to fuck you.”

Ian scratched his head. “Uhhh, we totally just fucked.”

“Well, maybe then I didn’t think you wanted to, alright? So why say somethin’?”

“So you thought I wasn’t interested, so you just didn’t say anything? We were already becoming friends. It’s never occurred to you that it could be nice to just have another gay friend?”

Mickey exhaled roughly. “What the fuck, Gallagher? Why you actin’ like a chick right now? We gotta have goddamn pillow talk and shit, dissecting every minute we’ve known each other to see what it means?”

“No. That's not. . . I don’t normally do this, but you just don’t make any fucking sense to me. And we haven’t even gotten to the part where you treated me like total shit for months, just to push me away for whatever reason, and I never did anything to deserve it. Or the part where you humiliated me in front of about ten co-workers and never apologized. Or the latest part where you suddenly wanted to bang and act like none of that ever happened. Normally, I don't have a list of baggage to go over with whoever I just fucked, and I’m guessing you don’t either.”

“Look man, hate to break it to ya, but I don’t owe you anything. I’m not gonna grovel for shit I said or didn’t say, okay? If that’s what you expect, you should probly just go.”

Ian felt a chill run up his spine, and he straightened his back out of frustration with Mickey’s continuously perplexing attitude. Apparently, sex between them hadn’t changed anything.

“What, are you just gonna go back to pretending like I don’t exist now, unless you get some fucking thorn in your craw and decide to berate me again to make yourself feel better?”

“I am if you don’t fuckin’ drop this stupid bullshit,” Mickey bit out, all raised eyebrows and tense shoulders.

Ian shook his head disbelievingly, tossing aside the rumpled bedsheets and getting up to search for his clothes.

“I should’ve fucking known better,” he said, pulling up his underwear, then his jeans, and scouring the space for his t-shirt. “You would never deign to take responsibility for anything.”

“Yeah, you should’ve known, so don’t try blamin’ me.”

Ian finally spotted the shirt, and pulled it on roughly, then took one last look at Mickey on the bed. His blue eyes were wide, and his expression was more unreadable than before, like he was holding something back. Like maybe he didn’t wanna be a dick, but couldn’t stop himself or something.

“You’re pathetic,” Ian told him, hoping that it sliced into Mickey like a knife. That he would take it to fucking heart and not just brush it aside like everything else. He made the two words sound crisp and true, like venom. He fucking meant them, and he wanted Mickey to really know it.

Maybe he did get it, because as Ian made his way through the house to collect the rest of his things by the door, no comebacks or abuses were hurled at him.

The house was dead silent as he slammed the door shut.

Things very much went back to the way they were before anything had ever happened between them. Mickey pretended like Ian didn’t exist, and Ian stuck his nose in the air and got a sinking feeling in his stomach every time he saw him.

Ian really was angry this time, though. More than he was hurt. He knew that Mickey wanted him, and he wasn’t really sure why he felt the need to deny it, since he was pretty much out of the closet. Apparently his issues went deeper than just the gay factor. But to keep punishing Ian for it. For not even being able to just own up to it. For not allowing himself to admit anything to Ian at all. . . any kind of weakness or contrition. . . it was infuriating.

So Ian figured he could at least try his hand at being petty, and passive aggressively try to anger Mickey in kind. The easiest way he could think of to rattle his cage was to use one of his old standbys. He’d managed to sneak a look at the kitchen manager’s schedule sheet in the office one day, and noted when his shifts would be overlapping with Mickey’s for the week. All he had to do was catch Mickey outside having a smoke before his shift for it to work to his advantage. And if he knew Mickey’s habits, he knew there was a really good chance to hit the mark. So he made plans with Louis, one of his most ardent married admirers, and asked him to drop him at work, then pick him up for their date later.

When they pulled up in his Benz, Mickey wasn’t around, so Ian dawdled, faking flirty small talk with the older man to keep him on the hook a while longer. A long five minutes went by, and finally, Ian saw Mickey approaching the back entrance. He pretended not to notice him, and grabbed Louis by the tie mid-sentence, bringing him in for a hotter and heavier make-out session than he’d ever really wanted to have with the man. But, desperate times and all that.

A couple minutes later, he pulled back, noting the flustered, turned on appearance of the man in front of him, feeling ever-so-slightly guilty for making him a pawn in the game. But whatever, Ian was really just a pawn to him too at the end of the day. He smiled impishly at him, said later, and slipped out of the car.

As luck would have it, his little display went to plan. Mickey was standing there by the door, obviously trying not to appear like he was fuming, dragging harshly on his smoke with a stony glare as Ian brushed past him on his way inside, briefly catching his eye, and maybe smirking at his discomfort a little bit dickishly.

Ian wanted to pat himself on the back for pulling it off. It made him feel a lot better about himself for a good hour or three, before it stopped mattering anymore, and was back to being pissed off.

“The fuck is your problem lately?” Lauren asked him a few days later.

He kept spacing out and forgetting to do the smallest things, snapping at people for stupid reasons, and being a generally moody pain in the ass. He knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“Just got shit on my mind. I’m fine,” he said.

“Like hell you are. It’s like some bug crawled up your ass and died, and it’s poisoned you, and you’re no fucking fun anymore. In fact, I hate being on shift with you.”

“Oh, fuck you, Lauren. It’s not like you’ve never PMSed your ass off around here.”

“We’re not talking about me, are we? I may be a bitch sometimes, but you’re usually the sunshine to my fucking rainy day. Now you’re more like the piss in my cereal.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “I said I’m fucking fine. Leave it.”

“Yeah, sure. Have fun sucking saggy gray ballsacks this weekend, okay?”

Ian flipped her off and ignored her for the rest of the night.

The following week, he was in the locker room, about to start a mid shift, when he overheard a conversation drifting in from the kitchen doorway.

“You’ve been actin’ extra dickish lately, Milko. Somethin’ goin’ on I should know about?”

Ian’s ears pricked up, heart rate picking up too, until it was hammering in his chest double time.

“Since when should you know anything about me, bitch?” replied Mickey.

“Oh, so it’s like that, huh? A’ight then. Don’t fuckin’ tell me what the hell is goin’ on with you, Mr. Strong and Silent, but just hear this. . . Stop bein’ a fuckin’ asshole to everyone around you. It can be cute in small doses, but if you actually keep goin’ out of your way to make everyone miserable, your ass will be on the line. Word’ll get back to the right people, and they’ll find a way to can you. So. . . figure your shit out, or keep your goddamn mouth shut, and keep your head down. Your choice.”

“Who the fuck died and made you boss, huh?”

“Maybe I ain’t a boss, but I’m like the only dude lookin’ out for you back here anymore. Take my advice, or don’t, you stubborn bastard.”

Ian was about to walk away when no more was said, but a female voice interjected. “Hey Mick. I got your back too. You alright?”

Ian could tell it was Macy. Butch lesbian with a tough exterior and a heart of gold.

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ fine.”

“Cool. Just, uh, let me know if you need anything. Maybe you should go out and get laid or something.”

Mickey laughed somewhat humorlessly. “Gettin’ laid is part of how this whole thing started.”

Ian’s breath caught. It was as close to an admission of feelings as Mickey was likely to let slip.

“I see,” said Macy. “Well, in my limited experience, dick ain’t nothin’ to get so fussed about. You can definitely live without whoever was attached to it, trust.”

Mickey laughed a little more genuinely that time, but it still sounded kind of sad to Ian. Then again, maybe he was just hearing what he wanted to hear. Maybe he himself was a little sad about it all too.

Ian and Eddie were getting off of a day shift together one afternoon, making plans at their lockers as Mickey walked in. Ian looked up just in time to catch his gaze, smile faltering as Eddie rambled on about all the debaucherous shit they were supposedly going to get into that night. He expected Mickey to sneer at him and stomp around, banging shit open and closed, and puffing his chest out. Instead, he looked almost defeated, quietly putting things away, and disappearing without fanfare.

Ian stared after him, not noticing Eddie trying to get his attention until he smacked him lightly on the cheek.

“What?” Ian asked, looking back in his friend’s direction.

“Are you fucking serious? You’re still hung up on _Milkovich_?”

Ian shook his head. “I’m not hung up on anyone. I don’t get hung up.”

“Oh, fucking please. . . If you were any more transparent, you’d be a fucking ghost.”

“Well, whatever. It’s not gonna happen with us, so don’t fuck with me about it, okay? Just this once.”

“What?” said Eddie incredulously. “Wait. . . did something happen between you two?”

Ian slammed his locker shut and spun his combination lock around harshly. “No.”

Eddie gasped exaggeratedly. “Yes it did! You little slut. I should’ve seen it sooner! What happened? How could you not tell me everything? I hate you.”

“Christ, will you calm down? As you can see, things didn’t exactly. . . pan out.”

“Yeah, who cares? That’s not what I’m interested in. Did you fuck?”

Ian rolled his eyes, snorting. “Pure class all the way with you.”

“You’re gonna pretend like you’re too good for spilling the tea on your fucking conquests now?”

“No,” Ian sighed. “I just. . . Mickey’s a fucking complicated mess, and it hurts my brain to even think about it.”

“Oh my god, was the sex good or not? Just tell me!”

“Yes, you asshole. It was. . . really amazing, actually. But what the fuck does it matter if it’s never gonna happen again?”

“Honey, with the kind of sex you usually go for, I’d do all I could to get that amazing ass again. You need to work it out. Treat yourself.”

Ian chortled. “Leave it to you to turn this into a ‘treat yourself’ moment.”

“As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing better to treat oneself to than some good dick. Take my words of wisdom to heart. Swallow your pride, and chase that shit while you still can. I’ve seen you work your magic. You could persuade almost anyone to do almost anything. Why is this guy any different?”

“Man, you stroke my ego better than anyone I’ve ever known. I love you.”

“Calm down. I don’t need you pining over my ass too. One at a time, boy.”

“Since when have I done one at a time?” Ian sassed.

“Whoa, that’s so true. I bet you’d give up all them old moneybag cocks for this particular bad boy, though. I can see it in your big green eyes.”

“Yeah, well, first let’s just work on getting him to speak to me again, then we’ll go from there.”

It was the end of a busy Saturday night when everything came to a head. The restaurant was well staffed both front and back of house, and everyone was in cleaning mode, trying to knock out closing tasks as quickly as possible so they could all go out and party.

Ian was in need of a mint, and he’d left his little tin of them back in his locker, so he jumped at the opportunity for a quick break from side-work and went back to grab them. He’d just taken the tin out and popped two mints in his mouth when he heard someone come into the room. He turned to find none other than Mickey, hair slicked back with sweat from the heated kitchen, apron stained and rumpled. He had a bit of a deer caught in headlights look about him as they stared at one another.

Ian felt awkward, so he said, “Hi.”

His voice was softer than he meant it to be, and he was certain that was the first word spoken between them since he’d called Mickey pathetic and stormed out of his house.

“Yeah,” replied Mickey, moving as if to walk around Ian.

Ian pushed him back to where he was standing before, retracting his hand quickly as if he’d been burned. He hadn’t touched him since he’d laid on top of his naked body, satisfied and happy just for a minute or two.

“ _Yeah?_ ” mocked Ian. “The fuck kind of greeting is that? I said hi to you.”

Mickey crossed his arms, a dangerous look overtaking his face. “You tryin’ to tell me how I can say hello to you now? How long is your fuckin’ list of rules for how our interactions are supposed to go, your highness?”

Ian’s forehead creased, and it became a kind of silent showdown between Mickey’s extra-high eyebrows arching and Ian’s severe chin jutting.

“Yeah, right, I forgot,” Ian finally answered. “Fuck me for trying to figure out what the hell you want, think, or feel. How dare anyone know what the hell goes on inside that thick fucking skull of yours.”

Ian barely noticed that the noise throughout the building seemed to dim significantly during their exchange.

“Uh huh,” said Mickey, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. “And I fuckin’ forgot how Prince fuckin’ Gallagher thinks he’s entitled to whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. And when he doesn’t get it, he pitches a fuckin’ fit.”

It didn’t really register that figures were now lurking in the shadows of the two doorways leading into the small space they stood in. Ian had tunnel vision, and whatever was in his periphery was of zero consequence.

“Oh, _I_ throw fucking fits?” Ian’s voice was climbing higher. “ _I’m_ the fucking child in this scenario? Not the asshole who shuts down every time someone gets too real with him. Not the total dickhead that screams in someone’s face because he likes him and doesn’t know how to handle it. Sure. _I’m_ the delicate flower who acts like a brat. Whatever you say, Mickey.”

“Christ, you really think that everyone is half in love with you, don’t you? It makes you fuckin’ furious when someone doesn’t fall in line and dance to whatever tune you’re playin’.”

Ian rolled his eyes, having half a mind to turn to his locker and find something to hurl at Mickey’s dumbass fucking head. “Nice deflection, asshole. Try another.”

“I don’t gotta try nothin’. I’m fuckin’ done with you.”

“Really? You keep acting like you wanna be, but I don’t think you are.”

“Yeah, of course you don’t, cuz no one ever rejects your stupid ass. Sorry if I gotta be the first, but them’s the breaks, gingerbread.”

“You are so full of shit,” accused Ian. “I may not know you well, but I know enough to safely say you wouldn’t be putting on this little display if you didn’t care about me. People who aren’t worth your time don’t take up your time.” Ian stepped forward, boldly putting himself in Mickey’s personal space. “So why don’t you drop the fucking act for a second and just tell me the truth.”

Mickey got quiet, which was a feat in and of itself, and his eyes darted from side to side, but never left Ian’s steady gaze as they studied each other.

Just as Ian was on the verge of writing it off as a stalemate, Mickey mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” pressed Ian.

“I said, I fuckin’ like you,” Mickey enunciated clearly.

“There. Was that so fucking hard?” said Ian. “I like you too.”

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Awesome.”

Their eyes were locked, dancing in double time, and their bodies were starting to lean naturally closer, and Mickey’s face was right there in front of him, and his plump lips were within reach. And suddenly, they were both grabbing onto each other at the same time, mouths crashing together in a deep, strong kiss. Ian could feel Mickey’s hands all over his back, and he squeezed Mickey’s head between his hands, then slid them down to his neck, skimming his thumbs across his jawline.

Ian wasn’t exactly sure how much time went by as they stood there making out, before a booming male voice shouted, “I KNEW IT, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

They broke apart to whoops, hollers, catcalls, and wolf whistles coming seemingly from all directions, as pretty much all the working staff stood crammed around the doorways goggling at the pair of them.

“Pay the fuck up!” yelled Danny, and multiple people seemed to be whipping out their wallets.

“What the fuck?” groused Mickey, wiping his mouth. “You assholes had bets goin’ about me?”

“Not about you, fool,” Chiron corrected. “About you and Ian.”

Ian’s eyes darted to the servers in the other doorway. Lauren was smirking all wide.

“It all makes sense now,” she said, shaking her head. “Congratulations, dummy.” And with that she parted the throng and left.

Eddie sent him a wink, and an air high five, and then finger guns for good measure.

Ian smiled and turned back to Mickey, who looked torn between being pissed and being nervous, like he was about to make a decision between fight or flight.

The last thing Ian wanted was to ruin the moment they’d just shared, so he tugged on the hem of Mickey’s shirt to catch his eye again. “Let’s just get outta here. They can finish up without us.”

Mickey nodded, and untied his apron, throwing it on the ground without a care.

“Fuck all you assholes,” he declared, flipping them off with both hands. “We’re out.”

Ian turned to grab his backpack, and followed Mickey out into the night.

“You alright?” Ian asked as they walked toward the street.

“Don’t start, Gallagher,” Mickey warned, but there was no sign of anger or exasperation in his voice.

Ian smiled. “What do you wanna do tonight?”

“Whatever the hell you want, red.”

His smile widened. “We could just go back to my place.”

“Sounds good,” said Mickey, lighting a cigarette.

They passed the smoke back and forth, and as they made their way to the L, Ian felt brave, so he reached out to take Mickey’s hand.

“Don’t fuckin’ hold my hand.”

Ian snickered, pulling his hand away. “Sorry, shoulda known better.”

“Mmhmm,” replied Mickey. “You’re learnin’.”

Ian bumped him with his hip and threw an arm over Mickey’s shoulder instead.

Mickey gave him a withering glare, but didn’t shove him away. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Never,” said Ian with a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  


  


  


  


The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I deeply appreciate comments, or just even hitting the kudos button. 
> 
>    
> [❤️ Tumblr ❤️](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)


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